


Cascade

by Lori_S21



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Biting, Destiel - Freeform, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Season 8 Spoilers, Sexual Tension, human!Cas, post-season 8, season8 AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-12 05:29:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 43,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/807825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lori_S21/pseuds/Lori_S21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em> "He wants to become reacquainted with his body, know it better than Dean does himself. He wants to play him like an instrument, coax those beautiful sounds out of him once more, and then create some new ones together..." </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Castiel just wants to go back. To feel that clarity, that coolness, the wind through his wings again. Dean Winchester makes him feel so much... They cling to each other, the evolution of a sexual relationship.</p><p> </p><p>On hiatus, but not abandoned. Just enjoy the imagery and take note of the rating...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He leans over the edge, toy-block world spread out before him. So high up above the world. 

This is what he misses. This is what he needs.

He breathes in deeply, inhaling the scent of pollution, cold air and people. People just take whatever they want. Take his Father’s world and bring it to ruin. People are beautiful and deadly.

He is ‘people’ now too.

The realisation hits him once more, making his knees weaken as he leans against the rusted metal railing. He feels the bone-deep caress of the icy wind. It ruffles his hair causing him to shiver from the sensation. He is cold in his body. He can feel it. His body. Now his only body. Only his. Has been for some time.

He is fallen.

The tan trench coat billows out behind him. _Like wings…_ He thinks bitterly, hands clenching the rail. The coolness stings. His joints feel stiff from the long climb up to the roof top. He’s standing more than five hundred in the air. It’s not enough. Too static. Stars peek through the gloom, edging over the city. He sighs as the night whispers to him, bringing with it the dull sounds of humanity; motion, traffic, the wind. 

He misses their voices most of all. Singing in melodious worship or wrathful vengeance. The silence is unbearable. It presses down on him like a weight, confining him to the Earth.

He leans over the edge, taking in the rush of the world below. Pinpricks of light in the darkness. A thousand tiny homes glowing boldly against the night. 

He once used to be taller than this building, he remembers telling them. He could laugh at the irony of it all.

Blood beats faster in his head as he leans forward, breathes in deeply. His heart pumps adrenaline through his once stolen body. He spreads his arms out wide. It almost feels like flying again. He can almost imagine his wings unfurling in holy splendour, air rippling through them. All gone. One small step and he’d fall into the abyss. Wouldn’t be able to soar. He can almost feel the false sense of exhilaration. 

He knows he’s no longer alone before any words are spoken.

“Cas. Please.”

Castiel lowers his arms slowly, but does not turn to face him. He doesn’t know what Dean is asking for. Doesn’t think Dean knows either.

“What are you doing? It’s damn near freezing up here.” 

“Yes. It is.” He agrees quietly, broken smile spreading across his face like a dash of winter sunlight.

“So you want to turn into a Cas-icle?”

Dean’s making a joke he thinks, though he detects no hint of amusement in his tone. Dean sounds tired. Resigned. But he’s here. Here on this crappy grey rooftop amidst rusted deck chairs, bird droppings and the iced chill of the wind. That means something. He doesn’t know what anymore. So many feelings rush towards him. It’s horrible. It’s overwhelming. He grips the safety railing tight once more. The city beneath starts to spin.

“Easy...” Dean’s voice sounds much closer now though he does not try to touch. He hears him shuffle closer hesitantly.

Castiel closes his eyes again, hoping the nausea will fade. There’s another sensation he has never felt before. It frightens him. The fact that he can even register fear makes a cold sweat break out across his body. He may have even let out a moan. He feels less in control of this body now it _is_ his body. That makes no sense.

“Nothing makes sense,” he whispers, hoping the wind will carry it away.

“Welcome to the real world.”

He feels a flare of anger at that. The sensation is not unfamiliar, but unwelcome still. Anger is petty but so are Dean’s words. So patronising. He didn’t expect sympathy. He doesn’t deserve it. There is nothing Dean can say to make this better. He should stop trying.

“Leave me.” Castiel tries to make it an order but it sounds like begging. He swallows a lump in his throat that he can’t explain the presence of. Everything in his body tightens when Dean is near, goes haywire. He can’t stand it and yet it makes him feel painfully alive. That’s the problem. Dean makes things even more complicated. He cannot carry Dean’s disappointment and feelings too.

“Leave so you can hurl yourself off the edge? No chance. You’ve got work to do.” The words come out fast and harsh, unforgiving. They take Castiel by surprise, shock a response from him.

Finally, he turns. Sees Dean two steps away from him on the open roof top. His jaw is clenched, arms folded against the cold or as if he’s had enough of Castiel’s issues. The thought nearly makes him laugh. They are so far beyond just ‘having issues.’ The taste of bitterness and sick humour leaves him reeling. He wonders if this is what madness feels like.

“Hurl myself off the edge?” Castiel echoes, focusing on the horror. The ultimate sin? “Never.”

“Don’t you think this disappearing act is getting old then? I can’t chase after you every time you start feeling too… human.” Dean sounds exasperated huffing as he tries to find the right words. 

Castiel tilts his head in confusion, focusing on Dean’s presence rather than the matter of his own humanity. “Then why do you?”

 _I never asked you to._

The question seems to catch Dean up short. He opens and closes his mouth in a way that reminds Castiel of baby birds waiting to be fed by their mother. He may not have a grip on emotions yet, but he doubts that Dean is expressing similar sentiments as an infant bird. No. This is confusion. This is irritation. He files the labels away neatly. He experiences them every day now too.

“I don’t - because… shut up Cas that’s why.” Dean blurts out, voice rumbling. Castiel feels something warm in his chest. It could be a glimmer of hope though he has no idea why. He is so very cold. He’s empty and grieving. For himself and his fallen brothers and sisters. They’re out there. And they’ll tear the world apart in their desperation to regain heaven. Castiel can relate. 

Dean looks beautiful in his concern. 

“I thought it was hard to keep tabs on you when you still had your wings.” Dean sighs sadly, pacing the narrow balcony in exasperation. The words are thrown so casually but every one hits Castiel like a punch. He actually gasps in pain, making Dean look up anxiously.

“What?”

They’re closer now. Castiel can feel his warmth. Can see the thick hairs on his head move in the steady wind stream. Can pick up the green and golden flecks in his eyes. But he can no longer see what’s _beneath_ anymore. 

He looks away in pain.

“That’s why I come here.” He clears his throat. The lump is still there and he’s having trouble keeping his voice steady. 

Dean does not say anything. Doesn’t prompt him in any way. But Castiel can feel his eyes on him. Knows he has his attention. Knows the soft skin around his eyes will be crinkling as they focus, possibly filled with trepidation but trying not to show it. It’s more than he could have hoped for. More than he’s allowed have.

He wants to have this this. Wants to keep Dean Winchester.

What Castiel feels he deserves is to plummet off this steel tower, to fall and burn just as his family did.

“I like to feel the wind on my skin.” He confesses instead, feeling stupid saying it out loud because it doesn’t compare. It doesn’t even come _close_. “I miss my wings. I miss their voices. I miss the clarity even amongst the chaos…” He struggles to find the right words to go with the emotions. How could Dean ever comprehend what it was like before?

“I feel so much. So much all the time. I don’t know how you stand it.” He clenches his fists, glances up at the sky. Pin points of stars glare down at him through the clouds as dusk approaches. 

“It hurts.” He realises and he can’t make it go away. Can’t find a way to heal. He cannot even find the right words to convey the compressing guilt and horror. “It’s my fault. All my fault. I feel…bad. All of them. We lost. We all lost so _much_.”

He lets his voice fade away, waiting for the sharp rebuttal, the angry accusations. He knows he’s feeling sorry for himself, but sometimes this is the only way he can let himself breathe. He can almost feel them unfurl. Phantom wings that once gave him freedom. Now he is trapped. Now he craves comfort he does not deserve, that Dean cannot possibly give him. More than that. He now _wants_ it. He thinks he has always wanted but never has it been so sharp, so clear and obvious.

So painfully unattainable.

“Cas.” Dean’s voice is as soft as he’s ever heard it. He feels the lightest graze of fingertips across his cheek but they’re gone when he looks up, as if they were never there. 

“You’re right.” Dean declares, voice now hard and uncompromising. “You should feel bad. It should haunt you forever. It should stop you sleeping or make you wake up screaming at least.”

Castiel nods, letting the words flow over him. This is what he needs. This is what he deserves. He wants to be told. He wants to be punished. 

“And it will.” Dean says clearly in that deep voice. “Because you’re a good person.”

Castiel laughs harshly then. “I am anything but -”

“Now I’m not one for pep talks mostly because they suck.” Dean cuts over him. “But you were tricked Cas. Tricked. You had something forcibly ripped from you by the ultimate douche with a stupid Transformer name. And you _will_ make it right.” 

Castiel finally has the courage to meet Dean’s eyes and they are blazing. Whether Dean is furious with him or Metatron, he doesn’t know. How many times will Dean take him back, shake him and put him back together again? He notices Dean’s fists are clenched. He’s so angry. Still beautiful. 

“Dean, I’m trying -”

“No, not just trying. You are going to make this right. You fucked up big time Cas. But we will fix this together because that is what we do. It’s what you have to do.”

The ferocity of Dean’s words makes him take a step backwards, until the rail bar digs into his back. 

“You mean I fuck up and you clean up after me?” He answers timidly, the curse word feeling heavy and distasteful on his tongue. 

His response makes a flicker of a devilish smile appear across Dean’s features. Castiel feels his stolen heart beat faster, now feeling connected to it. Effected by it. _Trust Dean to gain enjoyment from hearing a former angel curse._

“Exactly.” Dean says easily. “That’s family.”

The warmth is back. In his chest, his bones, even making his eyes sting. Dean had raged at him before. He had called Castiel a ‘child‘, ‘naïve’ and many other hurtful things that were all true. His words were laced with hurt and betrayal. Castiel had pleaded with him to understand. Had eventually explained what had really happened in heaven. It wasn’t enough. Dean still blazed. Furious at Cas but more so with the other treacherous angel. 

And now…This acceptance. This solace. A vow to try to stop the world burning together. It was all he wanted. Nothing he deserved.

The stinging in his eyes gets worse and Castiel tries to blink it away

“Please don’t cry! No chick flick moments.” Dean suddenly says, eyes wide and filled with panic. He flaps his arms in an alarmed manner that almost makes Castiel want to laugh.

“I am not. But it is hard to control sometimes.” Castiel admits, wiping his eyes hurriedly with the sleeves of his coat. 

He considers Dean’s words. He wants to be their family but has a habit of killing family. He wants to warn them. Tell the Winchesters to run away. But he’s not strong enough. He’s selfish. He needs them. Sometimes he needs Dean so much it’s a physical ache since he fell.

He’s so sick of falling.

“You really are a child aren’t you?” Dean asks sadly, winding his arm around Cas’ shoulders as he attempts to steer him away from the edge.

“I’m broken.” He answers simply, leaning into the warmth of his friend. 

‘Friend’ seems like an inadequate word, Castiel muses, but it will do for now. He feels too much. He cannot separate the different emotions. He wants to lose himself in the comfort of Dean, to never resurface. But that would be selfish. The hunter is right - Castiel has to fix this mess. This time he won’t forget that there’s only two people he can trust. Two brothers. So he steals Dean’s warmth and presses down all those feelings. 

He briefly thinks that Anna was right all those years ago. It does get worse.

It gets so much worse.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is turning into a slow burn evolution of a (sexual) relationship. I hope you enjoy and would like to hear your thoughts.
> 
> ***

Everything is so slow.

Being human, Castiel is starting to realise, means taking the slow path - _all the time_. No short cuts at all.

Everything takes so much longer to do now. Going somewhere for example. Once a journey was effortless. A blink of an eye and a flutter of wings was all it took. Now travelling is arduous and grating. Getting from one place to another requires hours of being confined within a metal box - sometimes the bus, often the Impala. He finds it hard to share the brothers’ enthusiasm for such means of transportation. It’s jarring, the contrast between freedom and constriction. It’s just so time consuming. He can never relax en route, though he does try. The Impala means so much to Dean and Sam. It’s their moving home where they feel at ease.

He has to do all the stupid little things that never even required much thought before. Tasks such as showering. Personal hygiene is important. Dean had practically manhandled him into the bunker bathroom one day after weeks of sulking. Now he was a real boy, Castiel could smell like a real boy. This was not a good thing apparently. Even Sam had started to maintain a wary distance and Dean had made the occasional teasing remark. 

“Shower. Now! Before we have to call you the Stink Guy.”

Castiel flushes red just thinking about it.

He has to eat and drink. He sleeps when the dreams don’t get him. He has to use the bathroom for more than just keeping clean. He shaves. He has to wash his clothes, buy new ones since one suit was no longer good enough. He keeps the trench coat - a piece of his past he cannot bear to part with. Not after Dean had kept it so long for him, like it meant something. Like it was a symbol of the old Cas, the good Cas who was powerful and always tried to do the right thing. And often failed.

He bums money off of the Winchesters - can no longer just take what he needs. He has to deal with the constant onslaught of emotions, most of which he has no name for. Everything is bright and confusing- a bombardment of sensory information. Even if his senses are stunted, his perception limited now he‘s human. It’s still baffling. People are baffling. He can no longer see true faces, but has to work hard to glean meanings. It makes him confused, uneasy, whereas before he could push it all down and try not to care.

All he does is care now. He can no longer push his doubts back, focus on the task at hand like the soldier he once was - so sure even when he was in the wrong. He has to feel it all. The guilt, the horror, the shame. 

He has to live like a human.

Castiel sits on the plush leather sofa, hearing Dean’s footsteps thud around the bunker. He sways a little, feeling woozy from blood loss, trying not to bleed on the upholstery.

He also feels pain now. He’s found he has a very low threshold for dealing with it too since it is all new to his human body.

“Sammy where’s that first aid kit?”

He needs first aid. 

Castiel rolls his eyes, wants to tell them not to overreact.

“Here Cas, hold this for now.” Sam presses a fresh tea towel against the cut across Castiel’s forehead. It’s a vertical streak of pain that splits through his left eyebrow. The ugly gash stings and keeps dripping scarlet into his vision. He holds the towel as tightly as he can manage, grateful for it. Tea towels. He can’t believe the Winchesters have tea towels. They are not tea towel people but they have a _home_ now. Times are changing.

Castiel remembers reading that head wounds bleed a lot even if they are small. That should be comforting. The shock of pain in his head is startling, surreal. He feels the searing intensity of it and begins to panic a little but not for his own welfare. 

He worries that the Winchesters will realise he is useless to them now. He cannot even aid them on a basic salt and burn mission without being injured by a mightily pissed off ghost. He could not smite the spirit. Couldn’t even distract it for long. Sam was hurled soon after which was worse because he still wasn’t fully recovered from the trials. He tries to forget the angry whispers on the drive home as he slumped in the back seat. He thinks they were arguing about ‘taking Cas on hunts.’ The thought hurts far more than the physical injury itself.

Castiel remembers the impact of hitting the wall face first as he battles a random flare of queasiness. He keeps this to himself. Doesn’t want to alarm the brothers. Doesn’t want them to think he’s so weak. His mind supplies the correct label: concussion. That usually requires a trip to hospital and something called a CAT scan, though how a feline could help in this situation Castiel does not know. Or _want_ to know.

“Found it!” Dean calls out triumphantly. He saunters into view gripping a green medi-kit and a half drunk bottle of whiskey, boots clunking heavily. “Doctor Dean will get you all patched up.”

He hears a snort of amusement from Sam who towers over him like the concerned giant he is. Castiel does not understand what is so amusing, perhaps it is an inside joke. He allows himself a small groan as his head gives another throb of pain.

“Cas?” His eyes meet Sam’s who is now leaning against the wall, looking pale himself. “I don’t know, maybe we should take him to the hospital…”

“Nah.” Dean and Castiel agree on something at least. “He’s made of tougher stuff aint that right Cas?”

_I was,_ he feels like answering, feeling smaller than ever. He wants to be back on the roof again. Nothing but the air and the sky. The air and the sky and Dean…

“And you need to rest up. You still look like hammered crap.”

“I’m fine.” He hears the younger brother bristle at the reference to his overall health and appearance. The fallen angel feels a stab of worry and wishes more than ever that he could still heal others. Though he doubts there is anything he could do to help Sam. Time and patience is all they have to work with.

“Go to your room and take five or something,” Dean orders.

“Go to my _room_?” The incredulity in Sam’s voice almost makes Cas smile.

“Yeah you heard me. And keep it down, all your wailing is freaking Cas out.” 

“I’m fine,” Castiel protests even though he sounds wretched to his own ears. “But I do happen to agree with Dean. You need time to recuperate. I’ll be fine.”

A pained sigh comes from Sam. “All right. But the same goes for you Cas. You’re not invulnerable anymore. Just take it easy okay?” From anyone else, that would sting. Sam just genuinely sounds concerned.

“I will.” Cas murmurs as Sam limps away, presumably towards his bedroom. The slow, measured steps he takes have Castiel worrying all over again. He cannot imagine what it must do to Dean.

The scrape of the chair as Dean positions himself opposite makes him start a little. That was something he never did before. He now sympathises with Dean all those times he chose to materialise behind him unannounced. He understands why Dean always jumped and cursed at him.

Dean cracks his knuckles, pulls in a deep sigh and attentively reaches over to Castiel. For a strong, occasionally fierce man, Dean’s touch is surprisingly gentle. He pries the soaking towel from Castiel’s grip, only to press it back down again with a grimace. “Can you hold it a little longer?”

Castiel blinks. “Of course.”

“Doesn’t look that deep.” Dean remarks and Castiel watches the shapes his lips make to form the words.

His gaze slips to Dean’s hands. Strong, graceful, calloused and sure. He flips open the first aid kit on his lap and rummages through, eyes intent, frowning a little. He selects a few packages, lining them up neatly across the inside lid of the medical kit, contents crackling.

“I wish I could heal myself.”

It slips out without permission, a lonely sigh as he leans back into the couch. He knows the healing process will be long, arduous. The wound will itch as it knits back together. No short cuts.

“Well if wishes were dollars…” Dean lets his voice trail off. He scoops the whiskey bottle off of the floor, opens it and takes a swig for himself before offering it to Castiel, eyebrow raised expectantly.

Cas wrinkles his nose but accepts the bottle anyway. He doesn’t think ‘Doctor Dean’ should mix alcohol with a head wound but says nothing. He also doesn’t like the taste of spirits. It does funny things to his head now he no longer has the constitution of an angel. He doesn’t want to lower his inhibitions. Especially around Dean. 

He may not be an expert on emotions and social situations but he knows Dean. Knows him well enough not to share the way he thinks and feels about him sometimes. Knows that Dean would flinch away from such confessions. He’s not ready to know that Castiel often thinks he is the only thing that keeps him sane. That he wants to touch or hold him so bad it’s a physical ache that he doesn’t understand, cannot interpret or translate into action. 

Castiel bites his tongue. Then takes another pull anyway.

“That’s the stuff.” Dean nods approvingly, eyes crinkling with affection. It’s getting better. Dean may not ever fully trust him again but it is getting better. He found him on the rooftop. Tracked him using the GPS in his phone and brought him home. Castiel smiles back warmly, before taking another sip. It burns all the way down, igniting the existing warmth he feels for his friend. That’s better. Hurts less already.

“You are most wise,” he murmurs as Dean moves in closer, laughing a little at Cas‘ words. He gingerly removes the cloth from the wound.

Dean’s jaw clenches but his eyes are steely, accustomed to patching up himself and his brother. “Must be weird for you, first battle wound and all.”

“Not my first.” Castiel automatically corrects.

“Right. I mean it must be weird not being Mr Invincible anymore. I sure know it is for me.” Dean says and Cas takes a moment to realise he never considered how strange it must be for his friends to see him this way. He was just caught up in his own feelings. Dean interrupts his musings before he can respond. “I don’t think it needs stitches anyway - lucky for you, I’m terrible at ‘em.” 

Castiel doubts that. Dean always puts himself down. He frowns a little, stopping when the wound stings too much and schooling his face into a more neutral expression.

Dean breaks out some damp wipes that smell strongly like alcohol - sterile and stringent. “Now this may sting a little. Or like a mutha.” He grins impishly.

He gently cleans the wound and Castiel has to bite his tongue at the first touch, it burns so badly. Cas pulls back a little, startled at the sensation. This causes the hunter to grab his chin firmly, cradling and positioning the fallen angel’s head in his hand. “C’mon don’t be such a baby,” he scolds half-heartedly.

Castiel feels his eyes widen at that but Dean doesn’t notice, keeps his eyes firmly on the task at hand. Cas feels like an infant, helpless and trusting in this human’s hands. He feels the warmth where Dean’s finger and thumb hold him steady. He relishes the gentle touch. They haven’t been close like this for so long. He can count the dusky freckles across Dean’s face if he wished. Name the shades of colour in Dean’s eyes. 

He bites his lip at the sting of the bacterial wipe, noticing how Dean catches the movement. The hunter licks his bottom lip, almost a nervous gesture, and Castiel cannot look away. “Looks like you’re going to keep that smooth complexion for a while yet.” Dean declares quietly.

He clears his throat before continuing to sterilise the wound with professional detachment. Castiel feels every touch, every graze down to his toes.

“I really am fine.” He blurts out to break the tension a little. _Thanks whiskey_. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

“Course I don’t.” Dean rolls his eyes. Castiel makes a note of the sarcasm and feels frustrated.

“I can still help you both. This won‘t happen again.” He doesn’t even sound sure to his own ears. He’s horrified to realise he sounds a bit desperate.

Dean says nothing. It’s almost as bad as a protest.

“I need to be able to help you. I need - ” He feels a painful lump in his throat which is inexplicable. His thoughts are whirring thanks to alcohol, blood loss and Dean‘s proximity. The words come thick and fast through no filter. He’s always said what he means with a truthfulness some find uncomfortable or 'freaky'. It’s only gotten worse since he fell. He finds himself desperately gripping Dean’s bicep, nails meeting muscle through soft plaid. “I understand that I’m useless now. That you don’t need me but I have to help.”

Their eyes lock. Dean’s jaw clenches as he moves a little closer and Cas is trapped in his intensity. His mind is racing now and Dean cuts him off effectively with a simple gesture. A sweep of an index finger across his unharmed eyebrow, gently tracing the arch. “Don’t be an idiot Cas. We’ll always need you.”

Castiel has no idea what this means, what his words mean, no idea at all. He just clings to them. It gives him hope. Dean’s eyes blaze, he cannot read everything within those arresting depths. He’s torn with too many human sensations. Wants to yank him closer. Wants to run away. Dean is warm and Dean is here. He falls into the touch just as Dean pulls back, clearing his throat abruptly. Castiel reluctantly lets his hand fall too, missing the contact already.

Dean determinedly looks away, foraging in the box for more first aid tools.

“Dean?” He asks hesitantly. Although he’s unsure of what he’s asking.

“You just have to be more careful Cas.” Dean’s voice cracks a little. It tugs powerfully at his memory. Castiel recalls a broken man, lying in a hospital bed, insisting destiny had chosen the wrong person. He wanted to protect that man. He wants to protect him now but all he ever brings him is more pain.

“I’m broken.” He states again, a hollow echo of his words on the roof.

Dean frowns at that, briefly places one hand on his knee. Castiel has to struggle to stay still. “You’re just having growing pains.”

“Like a child?” He nearly laughs and feels no bitterness. Did he not just compare himself to an infant earlier?

“Well, you’re no baby in a trench coat but you _are_ only a few human months old.” Dean suddenly grins like it greatly pleases him to be more mature than an ancient being. Cas shakes his head, feeling his lips pull into a small smile, marvelling over how Dean can often make him feel better. He doesn’t deserve such kindness. 

He goes to take another swig of whiskey thinking maybe it will help him find more words. More magic words to make Dean touch him again. He doesn’t know why he craves this so wantonly but he does. His head is fuzzy and his face still tingles where Dean traced it. The whiskey chases down a low burn that was there already though Cas hadn’t noticed before and cannot explain it. He remembers the pizza man and feels his cheeks heat up as he tries to dismiss the thought. That’s the last thing they need right now. Though he wants-

To his surprise, Dean yanks the bottle from his grip. “That’s enough of _that_.” He confiscates the bottle, placing it on the floor with a dull thud. “I’ve seen where that leads and I’m not letting you go there.”

He tilts his head in confusion (the man gave him the bloody thing) as Dean avoids eye contact. “What do you mean?”

“Believe me, it’s nowhere good.” His tone is grave but a bright smile follows that Cas basks within. He can almost imagine seeing the beautiful light of his soul again. “Like I’m one to lecture but still.”

He wonders if Dean is referring to his own unhealthy drinking habits or something else. Castiel fleetingly remembers Dean describing a 2014 version of himself thanks to a little trip courtesy of Zachariah. A broken, decadent, human version of himself. Cas had scoffed - it was a false vision or one possible future that had already been derailed. Now he begins to wonder if he’s becoming a little more like that nightmare version everyday. If Dean sees him that way. He shudders and decides that it may be better not to ask. 

He doesn’t know what else to say though (there was never this awkwardness before he fell was there?) and settles for a: “What’s that?” as Dean unpeels something from a clean white wrapper.

“Butterfly enclosures. Presses edges of a cut together.” Dean answers gruffly, tongue tip poking out a little in concentration. Castiel’s stomach flutters. 

“Ah… That sounds unpleasant.”

“You’re a big boy,” Dean replies, hint of a smile lurking at the corners of his sculpted mouth though his face is flushed, voice less stoic than usual. He considers whether Dean would recognise Cas’ own flustered feelings, but knows they can’t go there. He knows how these things end. With arguments or sex or something else that leaves them both a little more broken. Dean is his anchor. And Sam. He needs them to stay alive. 

Castiel internally repeats those words as Dean apologetically presses the edges of his cut back together and slowly sticks the bandage over the top. Cas winces in spite of himself.

“Almost…Ah…There! All done.” Dean gives his shoulder a quick squeeze after mercifully letting go of the wound. It feels weird - tightly compressed, encouraging the edges to knit back together again. He will have to remember not to move his eyebrows much, no matter how exasperated (or surprised, or shocked, or _anything_ ) he may feel.

“Thank you,” he says and if he indulges in a light but unnecessary touch of Dean’s arm again, who’s judging? Not Dean, judging by his answering smile.

“You’re welcome, Cas.”

Sometimes, only sometimes, Castiel thinks the slow path isn’t so terrible after all.


	3. Chapter 3

It happens unconsciously, without consent. Easy as breathing: spontaneous and natural. Just as vital.

Castiel is riding ‘shotgun,’ though he doesn’t admit to not understanding that term. This rare opportunity has presented itself since the youngest Winchester was still resting in his room in the bunker, under “Doctor Dean’s” orders. 

“Road to recovery, Sammy. Suck it up.”

Sam was left with no choice after Dean had flatly refused to take him on the latest hunt. He was even reluctant to take Castiel after the last disastrous salt and burn mission. The fallen angel frowns at the memory, causing a twinge of pain in his nearly healed laceration. Cas had threatened to cut the stuffing out of Dean’s beloved memory foam mattress if he was left behind too. 

“That’s a cruel card to play Cas. You don’t mess with a man’s mattress.”

But it worked.

He doesn’t think Sam is on the road to recovery either. Not just yet. He grows paler every day, the simplest of tasks often leaving him breathless. He doesn’t know whether Dean is in denial with his optimistic outlook or if he has some kind of plan. Something to restore Sam back to full health. Cas has made a note to make sure he doesn’t go summoning any cross road demons. Either way, Dean isn’t sharing his thoughts with anyone.

Dean isn’t sharing anything with Castiel right now either. The atmosphere is intense, so awkward, that even Cas can take a hint and realise how uncomfortable he has made his friend. He’s surprised Dean didn’t just drive off without him after the case was solved. 

He glances nervously at the profile of the hunter. His eyes are firmly fixed on the road, jaw set, hands clenching tight on the steering wheel. Cas almost wishes Dean would play one of his noisy tapes, just to break the silence. He swallows hard and looks away from his friend, hands fidgeting in his lap. He’s wearing a plain, dark suit, nothing fancy. Similar enough to the one he spent many years wearing, for comfort. He plucks at the smooth material of the pants, before glancing back at Dean and sighing.

Street lights illuminate his face in flashes. It is not a happy face. 

“Dean I-”

“Don’t say anything.”

His voice is hard and cold, leaving no room to argue. He wishes he could fly away now more than ever. Feels like a scolded child instead of the ancient being he really is. Was. Whichever.

Does Dean really hate him now?

It was only a kiss.

\--------------------------------

The conclusions they had drawn from local news reports proved to be entirely correct. There had been an unusually high occurrence of heart attacks all within the same office block in Kansas City. Four heart attacks within two weeks pointed to something supernatural (“Either that or a killer lunch menu , right Cas?”). 

In fact it had been the work of forty-six year old, asthmatic Marty Groucher. The very lonely, much ignored, barely remembered and extremely pissed off ghost of an employee who had died of a heart attack himself late one Friday night after slaving to meet a deadline. After some digging, on Dean’s part since Cas’ people skills were still kind of rusty (“DID YOU KILL MARTY GROUCHER?!”), they had uncovered that Marty’s body hadn’t been discovered in his office until later the following week. No one had missed him, no one had particularly liked him, and not even the cleaners had deigned to clear up his office for him. Until he’d started to smell that is. 

“No wonder he went postal.” Dean sighs, as they break into the office block after dark.

Driven to an early grave by a stressful job and no one even noticed he was gone. Or demanded that final report he had been slaving over that had led to a fatal heart attack in the early hours of the morning.

“Either that or one too many extra cheese pizzas,” Dean had muttered at one point, much to Castiel’s dismay. Marty was a big guy, but Dean could be so tactless when there’s a homicidal, asthmatic ghost who is possibly within hearing distance and is, quite likely, squeezing the hearts out of everyone who has wronged him.

Dean simply rolled his eyes when Cas had pointed this out at midnight as they searched the dead man’s office for whatever was keeping Marty rooted there. He’d been cremated over a week ago so there was no body left to burn.

“It’s never that simple is it?” Groused Dean, crowbarring open a filing cabinet that turned out to be empty. Cas shrugged in reply, keeping watch with a salt-rock loaded gun in case Marty decided to show up. And a bag of the stuff in his pack. Just in case.

“Nothing’s ever simple,” He agreed, since Dean seemed to want some kind of vocal acknowledgment by the way he was glaring.

“C’mon Cas. This is gonna take all night. What else could the guy have left that could keep him here?” He sighs in exasperation. “They already cleared out his office.”

“I have no logical idea. Some kind of DNA trace?”

When Dean pauses his search to give him a disgusted look, Castiel realises how that must have sounded and blushes. “Don’t be disgusting Dean.” He chided. “I merely meant he spent so many hours here. Perhaps that level of dedication just leaves a mark after death.”

“Oh great. So you’re saying we should just burn it all down?” Dean asked, voice heavy with sarcasm. “That’ll go down well. Not at all suspicious.”

Castiel couldn’t help but smile fondly at the indignant look on Dean’s face. The way he stood with his hands on hips, slightly flushed from his efforts. Cas still thought he was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Even when pissed off and on the verge of a ‘hissy fit’ as they say. He tried not to stare as Dean bent down to search the lower drawers, graceful and strong in his movements.

Nothing is simple. Before Cas could retort, he was promptly thrown back off his feet by a powerful blast of psychic energy. Instead of hitting the glass wall with a jarring impact, he went straight through it, shattering the window into hundreds of jagged shards with the force of his body. 

And it hurt. It’s always a surprise, how much it always hurts now. He hit the finely carpeted ground hard, landing awkwardly on his back. He heard Dean call out his name in alarm before it was cut off with a grunt of pain. This caused Cas to struggle to sit up, afraid for his friend. Only when he’d stopped seeing stars could he glance up and see the middle aged, furious Marty in all his glory, still finely suited wearing a twisted look of hatred. And there he had stood over Dean who had hit the solid wall, flickering in an unearthly manner.

“You don’t want to do this,” Castiel says clearly, trying not to shiver from how cold it had become. There was an electric charge in the air, like the calm before a lightning storm. A sense of something building. Something unpleasant, bitter and violent waiting to be unleashed.

Dean unsuccessfully lunged for the gun Cas had dropped. Clearly Dean was too angry to negotiate after being been thrown into the wall. Only then did the vengeful spirit retaliate by moving like a blur towards Dean and plunging his hand deep into his chest, causing him to gag and gasp in pain. His spine wrenched back as though struck by an electric current.

This was how he’d made so many others suffer the same fate as him. How painful and utterly terrifying for his bewildered victims, Cas had thought in horror.

“Dean!” Castiel cried out, scrambling to his feet, not even noticing the shards of glass as they shredded through his hands. He only managed to get three feet forward before being blasted into Marty’s steel desk by a random, furious burst of energy from the distracted ghost. 

It was the sound of Dean’s choked off, desperate, gasp for air that snapped him out of his pained daze. 

Castiel didn’t call out again. He didn’t want to attract the ghost’s attention as a plan began to form. He pressed down the mind-bending panic, the swell of hopelessness, of desperate fury. He won’t watch Dean die. The salt gun was out of reach, too close to the furious spirit. He needed to get rid of Marty and fast. Dean was going pale and limp and the spirit is just standing there, smiling grimly – more like a grimace.

Cas had felt sorry for him. Had even sympathised with his lonely existence. But he had no right, no right at all, to take those people with him. Especially one of the few people Castiel loves in this world. The person he loves most of all in this world, he’d realised. And with that, the answer came automatically in his mind. Obvious and certain.

Asthma. An asthmatic ghost. 

Cas didn’t think. He just knew. He knew they must have overlooked something. It must still be here. So small, so crucial to life…

Crushing down the blinding panic, he seized the handle of the desk drawer and frantically yanked it open. There inside, the only thing inside, was a small, blue inhaler.

Cas threw it into the metal trash can, shoved a pile of paper on top and set it alight by dropping his brand new lighter. He tore off his bag and added salt to the improvised bonfire, not stopping to check if he was right (he just knew he was), willing the thing to catch aflame.

His suspicions were confirmed when the ghost of Marty suddenly screamed in agony, releasing Dean from his deadly grasp. Dean slumped to the floor with a painful rattle of breath and had lain still. Whilst Marty, dead but not forgotten Marty, had burned up, like the film in an old camera, before blinking out of existence entirely.

“Dean!” He had frantically run to him, heart in his mouth, terrified of the lifeless figure, imagining a thousand different scenarios in which his world was gone. Because that was how it had felt. A life without Dean… It was more frightening than no life at all. He couldn’t heal anymore. What if he was too late? He was supposed to bring Dean home to his ailing brother, to protect him. What if he – 

“Nice. One. Cas.” Each word is slow, painful, muffled into the ground. 

The best thing he’s heard in his whole damn existence. 

“Dean.” He repeated, the name pulled out of him in a gasp of joy and sheer relief.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Are you-?”

But Dean never got to finish that sentence. Or to catch his breath back just then. Because Castiel had gracelessly pulled him up by the shoulders, forgetting all about his smarting hands, cupped the back of his head with one hand and kissed him.

\----------------

And it hadn’t just been a light peck. No. It was not an ‘easy to dismiss, glad you’re okay, let’s shrug it off’ press of lips on lips. It was hard. And it had gone on and on. Cas had buried all his relief, the tension, the frustration and confusion within that kiss. He’d gripped Dean’s hair, nipped his lower lip, stroked his jawline, pressed his body against him in a rush of adrenaline and anger – anger that Dean had nearly left him, anger that he wanted this so much. He had left smears of his own blood on Dean’s cheekbones and didn’t care.

And the thing was, Dean hadn’t pushed him away. Not at first. Castiel’s arms still hurt from the firm grip he’d had on them. His lips tingle and are swollen from the way Dean’s mouth moved hungrily against his. His jaw hurts from how hard Dean had pressed back. He remembers the breathless way Dean had gasped against him. The rough way he’d pulled Cas in closer. 

Until the fire alarm went off and Dean pushed him away, gasping. A look of horror gradually replaced the soft-stunned expression in his eyes.

He stormed off and hadn’t said a word since. Maybe he wants to forget. Maybe he can.

But Castiel _won’t._

Because he knows how he tastes now. He can remember how Dean’s body had surged against his. He can still hear the greedy moan that had sounded nothing at all like revulsion. And he doesn’t understand any of it. Doesn’t understand why Dean is acting cold, like they didn’t burn together little under an hour ago. Like that kiss didn’t leave them both hot and shaking.

He sweeps a thumb over his lower lip and sighs. Thinks back to his first kiss with Meg. He’d felt it back then. Or at least, he’d told himself he did. But just because his vessel had reacted didn’t mean he’d felt it all the way down, right to his very essence. He was going through the motions. An imitation of life.

Dean made him feel all the way though his body, then and now. It was real, visceral and everything he’s ever accidentally wanted. Dean feels like home. Makes him crazy, makes him feel like he’d do anything - absolutely anything - to get to kiss him again. And that scares him.

Castiel didn’t apologise. And he won’t. Because he isn’t sorry at all. And deep down, he thinks Dean isn’t either. Because it was there. It’s always been there. And now he’s human enough, and selfish enough to reach out and take it.

And he won’t apologise for that.

\------

They pull up to the bunker at the break of dawn. 

To Cas’ surprise, Dean doesn’t tear out of the Impala as if the former angel had something that was catching. He just sits there, in the sudden darkness, smouldering and still gripping the wheel. Castiel knows he’s going to say something. He can feel it brewing. Dean has never been the most vocal person when it comes to discussing feelings so Cas just sits in silence, waiting. He doesn’t expect it to be anything good, but is patient anyway, head tilted towards Dean in a show of nonchalance though his heart is racing like the traitor it now is.

“Look Cas…” he begins but doesn’t finish.

He supresses the urge to prompt. Merely raises his eyebrows, hands folded in his lap contritely.

“What happened…Back there. Umm...” He clears his throat noisily and Castiel nearly smiles at the way he is acting. It’s almost adorable in its awkwardness. Reminding him irresistibly of how he must have looked in that disastrous trip to the brothel all those years ago. Even the millennia old former angel is handling this better. He thinks Dean may even be blushing. He finally takes a hand off the wheel and rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably, firmly avoiding eye contact.

Cas crushes down a flare of inappropriate amusement. 

“Yes Dean?” It slips out, teasingly innocent in tone. Castiel bites his lip to stop himself adding anything more. What is wrong with him today? Acting like a teenager…

“Dude, do you think this is funny?” Dean finally looks at him, voice cracking a little, eyes wide.

“Moderately.”

“Cas!” He chokes out, sounding shocked.

“I’m sorry Dean. But I think you should just say what you need to say.”

He lets out a bark of laughter upon hearing that. “Ok. Fine. What _was_ that?!”

“What was what?” Cas replies, mercilessly.

“You. Me.” He flaps his arms around. “With the whole ‘diving for my tonsils like it was going out of fashion’ thing.” Dean blurts out, voice much higher than usual.

“You mean, when I kissed you.” Castiel translates, voice low for some reason. He hears Dean swallow hard.

“Right! Yes! Jesus Cas, what else could I mean?” He sounds exasperated now.

“And when you kissed me back.” He adds for confirmation, looking out of the windscreen.

“Right. I mean, no! I mean…Cas!” He looks like Castiel has backed him into a wall.

“What?”

“Why are you so cool about this?” He wrings his hands together, looking confused.

He doesn’t know what to say to that so decides to let Dean rant a bit.

“I mean, I get that you were relieved. And life-threatening situations are always sexy, I guess. Then there’s the adrenaline.” He sighs, “I guess I know _why_ you did it...sort of. I just don’t know what to do with that.” He sighs, hand making his hair spiky. “You’re my best friend. And a dude. And _Cas_.”

Castiel takes a moment to process his words. 

“I guess we can try forgetting about it. Call it a one-time deal. Is – is that okay with you?” Dean adds.

He sounds anxious now, maybe trying to convince himself. Castiel wishes he could read his mind again. He stares at him intently, as if he could. Dean squirms under such sharp focus but doesn’t break contact.

He just wants Dean. He doesn’t want to forget.

“Are you giving me a choice?” Cas asks quietly.

There is complete silence between them as the sun slowly ascends over the sandy landscape, setting the sky awash with deep shades of pink and orange.

“God -dammit Cas!” Dean shouts suddenly. Castiel doesn’t even flinch. “I don’t know what you want from me. It’s driving me crazy. The way you look at me sometimes… I don’t know what you want!”

“What do _you_ want?”

He flat-out glares at that. “Still like a friggin’ riddle.” He mutters. “What is this, Psych 101? Tell me why you kissed me!”

“Because I wanted to,” Castiel shouts back though he doesn’t know why. He also doesn’t understand why Dean’s getting so upset. All he had to do was ask. Castiel is fed up of lying, of hiding. If anything, he owes Marty the disgruntled ghost one for opening his eyes a little. Life is too short. 

“And I want to do it again.” He adds recklessly, trying to sound confident but feeling his cheeks heat up. _Stupid coronary reaction._

He knows he doesn't deserve more. But he's human. Dean makes him want to be human. He brings out the best and worst in him. Always has.

“Cas!” Shocked again. Green eyes so wide, unable to look away. He licks his lips and Castiel leans in a fraction closer, eyeing the movement.

“What?” He asks softly, head tilted, trying to calm his friend down. They’re both breathing heavy. Cas can feel the heat coming from his friend. Can practically see his thoughts whirring, even if he can’t read them anymore.

“You don’t just dump something like that on a guy,” He laughs a little hysterically, voice rough, eyes on Castiel’s mouth.

“Sorry.” He says, trying out a shrug.

“No you’re not.” Dean accuses, shuffling closer in spite of himself.

“No I’m not.” Cas agrees as Dean closes the gap, pulling his face closer and trying out another kiss.

Castiel is thrilled. Castiel has found a way to fly again. He pushes back with enthusiasm, groaning happily. Feels Dean’s tongue tracing his lips and cradles the back of his head, short hairs soft under his fingertips. 

Dean is just as strong and sure with this as he is in everything he does. Castiel thinks that this is what they are meant to be. This is just. This is right.

The kiss deepens. He can taste nothing but Dean. Can feel his hand on his neck, an anchor in this dreamlike moment. He feels hot. Too hot, clothes constricting. He wants to do something reckless and settles for running a hand down Dean’s back until it can slip under the fabric of his shirt, grasping the smooth, hot skin of his waistline, causing the hunter to gasp.

Dean draws back, much to Castiel’s chagrin. 

“Dean…” His voice is rough, shaky and reproachful.

“C’mon Cas.” Dean sounds like he’s scolding him again. “We’re both too old to park… Especially you, yikes.”

The only comfort is how shaken Dean sounds. Cas made him sound like that. He likes it.

He gives Dean his best sensitive stare, trying to be alluring. 

“I’m bad for you.” Dean mumbles, sounding dazed. “We both know it.”

“You have no idea what you are to me.” Castiel insists, voice rough.

Dean swears under his breath and pulls him in again, laying one long, breath-stealing kiss on him before breaking away firmly, though he still grips Castiel’s shoulders. “Sam’ll be wondering where we are.” He mumbles apologetically. “And we still need to sort out those hands.”

He slides his own down so that he may cup the backs of Cas’ hands gently. They leave a trail of fire in their wake. Castiel’s hands have stopped bleeding from the glass incident, but they smart terribly, feeling rough and sore.

They stay sat like that for a moment, eyes locked, breathing deeply. Castiel feels so alive, so wild as he tries to calm down. He wants more. He wants everything all at once. He blames his newly found humanity for this. But probably Dean more. 

He’s lost in those eyes. “I want you to show me everything about sex.” Cas whispers bluntly, still not thinking straight from the rush of hormones brought on by Dean’s proximity.

Dean promptly drops his hands and proceeds to cough up a lung. He looks as though Cas had bonked him on the head. And shuffles in his seat, hands covering his lap for some reason.

“You and everyone else.” He chokes out between coughs, trying to salvage his tattered reputation as the cool Winchester.

“Does that mean you’ll consider sexual relations with-“

“Look, we’ll talk about this later, ok Cas?” Dean sighs heavily, shakily. “Jeez that’s got to be the weirdest offer I’ve ever had.” Cas feels his face fall as he retraces his words. Were they weird? Is he too weird? Did he say too much and ruin everything? Certainly, he was forward, but given that they’ve known each other for five years… He bites his lower lip worriedly. 

“Hey,” Dean’s voice is as soft as the gentle way he traces Castiel’s lower lip with his thumb. This stops Cas from biting it, and he smooths over the mark. “Weird is you and I like it, I really do. I just mean I think we’ve shattered enough rules of our friendship for one night, don’t you?”

Not enough, Castiel wants to say but doesn’t.

“Come on then.” Dean orders, obviously still flustered as he runs a hand through his hair. “Don’t want to worry Sam.” 

With that, he opens the door and makes his way towards their home. And if his legs are a little shaky on the way there, that’s a sight for only Castiel to see and treasure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Rating will go up. Next chapter pending if anyone's interested. WIP.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam is cured.  
   
Castiel doesn’t know how. Neither does Sam. But they are both in complete agreement that Dean must have done something very foolish. Cas had seen Sam’s illness before falling, gotten a good look at it. He saw enough to know that Sam was damaged on a deep, molecular level. Abandoning the trials would not change that. To recover from such devastation is nothing short of miraculous.  
   
Dean will not let them in.  
   
After returning from the Marty-Hunt, all thoughts of romance (or lust as Castiel can graciously admit) were immediately set aside after seeing Sam. He had not fared well during their absence. Light shakes had progressed to full body tremors. He was dizzy, weak, clutching his head as if trying to keep it together through the crippling pain, slumped over the dining table. Dean had rushed over, taken one hard look at him - face grim, and ordered him back to bed.  
   
Then, after making Castiel swear to watch over his little brother, he had left without another word of explanation.  
   
To abandon his ailing brother was out of character enough, but the look of fierce determination had scared Castiel deeply. It was the look someone gets before doing something exceedingly reckless, a desperate last resort.  
   
“Don’t make any deals Dean, please! Not again!”  
   
But Dean never answered.  
   
Castiel had spent the rest of that night checking in on Sam whilst trying to keep Dean‘s absence a secret. The last thing Sam needed was to worry about his brother. Sam had eventually woken up and claimed such behaviour was “seriously creepy,” a shadow of a smile spreading across his features.  
   
“Why aren’t you asleep anyway? You must be wiped.” He said faintly, propping himself up against the headboard before Castiel could creep away to avoid inevitable, awkward questions.  
   
“Just making sure you’re okay.” He replied, edging back to the door.  
   
“Hang on, wait a minute Cas!” His eyes were bright with fever but still sharp. “Where’s Dean? He hasn’t filled me in on how the hunt went. Not like him.”  
   
“Hunt went fine. The ghost has been moved on to his final destination. No more causalities.” He chose to ignore the first question, close to babbling. “I think I should get you some fresh water...”  
   
That made Sam sit bolt upright, the deception not lost on him. “Okay Cas. Where is he?”  
   
Castiel was just as bad at lying as when he was an angel. Only Sam’s weakness from the sickness stopped him from dragging himself across the country in search of his brother. He was furious.  
   
“I’m going to kill him when he gets back.” Sam had kept repeating over the course of three days.  
   
“That’s it, think positive.” Castiel had responded, not really listening. Tucking a feverish Sam back into bed like a demented nurse maid, in a subtle attempt to restrain him. Sam had already made several failed attempts to escape the bunker in search of Dean. Castiel was not going to break his promise.  
   
“Perhaps I could read to you?” Castiel suggested hopefully. Sam had acquired several interesting books, not all of them about demon lore.  
   
“What if he sells his soul for me again? I can’t let him go to hell again, I won’t.” Sam had sworn for the hundredth time, fever making him ramble repeatedly.  
   
Castiel made soothing sounds and pressed a cool cloth over his head. That’s what they always did in the movies he’d seen.  
   
“Quiet now. Dean’s level of dedication to you knows no bounds,” Castiel agreed. “But even if he is foolish enough to strike such a bargain, I will still find a way to pull him out of hell...Angel or not.”  
   
But Sam had fallen into another uneasy sleep, exhausted and broken through fits of agitation for his brother’s wellbeing. Castiel felt much the same way. He wished he could have stopped the eldest Winchester from leaving, but he knows nothing would have changed his mind. Sam is his baby brother. He would gladly, and has, died for him. Nothing would ever change that, even Castiel’s pleas. And that frightens him.  
   
On the fourth morning, the nightmare was over. Dean had returned, all confidence, swagger and arrogant smiles. And Sam had woken, restored to full health - just like that - and welcomed his brother with a well-placed fist to the face.  
   
 -------------  
   
No amount of threats, pestering, begging, blackmailing or pleading had gotten Dean to confess what he had done to make Sam well again.  
   
“For the thousandth time: I didn’t do anything! I wish I had. You think I like feeling like I’ve failed you?” His voice had cracked with over-dramatic emotion, but Sam and Cas didn’t buy it for a moment.  
   
“Oh come on Dean, you are so full of it.” Sam had groaned, looking completely unimpressed with Dean’s puppy-dog eyes. “What was it? Demon deal? You found an angel to secretly heal me up overnight? Bribed Death with some pickle chips? What was it?!”  
   
“Well, if you’d stop being a little bitch and listen actually listen to me you would know: I. Did. Not. Do. It!”  
   
Sam just made an exasperated sound, looking at Castiel for backup. “Can you believe this?”  
   
Cas merely shrugged. He was just happy to have both brothers alive, well and in one piece. Whatever hideous nightmare may follow, they would have to deal with. If this was the calm before the storm, he’d rather hide in the illusion. He just had to trust Dean, to accept that he knows what he’s doing. He’s always found it hard to trust others. Dean is no exception. And when it comes to Sam, he knows Dean never been the most rational thinker. And that’s the way it should be. Sam will always come first with him.  
   
Case in point: the changes in their relationship had been completely ignored and set aside. They sunk back into version of desperate normality in a way that is grating and frustrating to Castiel. The tension is worse now because it has been acknowledged. To try and pretend otherwise is just like wearing a mask over your real face all the time. Pointless and unnecessary.  
   
They don’t talk about that night. They don’t mention it to Sam. Even if Sam wasn’t too pissed at what Dean might have done to save him.  
   
They settle back into an uneasy truce, an imitation of life before. It doesn’t work. Dean knows how much Castiel wants now, and everyone’s mad at each other. Sometimes, Cas can hear the brothers yelling at each other no matter what room he’s in.  
   
At times like those, he likes to slip outside and watch the world go by, watches the bees once more.  
   
Then there’s the threat of the angels still looming over them. Castiel cannot go far and never without one Winchester. The fallen angels have been suspiciously quiet after that first hysteria-filled night of devastation and panic. The world knows what’s out there now. His fallen brothers may not be able to fly, but word is (according to Kevin and Garth), they are massing, gathering. Still strong, still righteous and still absolutely furious with Castiel, if flightless.  
   
Half of them wants to kill him to see if that will break the spell of banishment. The other half just wants to plain kill him. Either way, he is confined to the bunker or having a minder for the foreseeable future.  Another level of frustration that leaves him wondering who will break first. He doesn’t want to be a burden. Doesn’t want to be coddled. It is humiliating. And of course, there’s that part of him that believes he deserves whatever the angels want to do to him. A part that grows every day.  
   
This is truly the calm before the storm.

 

\-------------------  
   
   
Weeks go by. Weeks of not touching, of carefully sitting a respectable distance apart. Of tactfully not looking when getting changed in motel rooms. Of sensibly keeping Sam between them. Of trying not to stare too hard (at least on Dean’s part. Castiel had always been a starer and nothing will change that).  
   
Castiel has lost that feckless confidence of before. He doesn’t know where they stand. Sometimes he thinks he’s going to do something ridiculous like grab Dean’s face and kissing him. Hard. In public. He doesn’t know how to handle this onslaught on new emotions. To be forced back into the denial of what they were before is cruel and unfair.  
   
He thinks Dean’s struggling too. He’s caught him staring on occasion, gaze flitting away with a guilty expression. And Dean was down-right unpleasant to the waitress who flirted with himself that one time (“Jog on Mary-Sue. Trying to have a conversation here?”).  
   
He’s lying in bed, in his sparse room, wearing only a comfy pair of sleep pants. It doesn’t quite feel like home yet but he’s trying. He doesn’t own much in the way of possessions. Just a few books, amongst them a battered, but beautifully engraved bible Dean had found for him in a thrift shop, and a few items of clothing.  
   
He’s trying to sleep but he can hear the brothers arguing. Angry murmurs that buzz through the bunker, filled with pent-up frustration. They often bicker but this time they really mean it. He can tell. Dean’s secret keeps them apart. Sam’s new determination to cure demons is another matter of dispute since Dean cannot understand it. Perhaps he should try to intervene, the mediate, but maybe he agrees with Sam too much. They need to have it out. Dean has to tell them if he struck a bargain for Sam’s life. And to cure is better than to kill. He can see that now.  
   
A few minutes later and there’s the angry slamming of a door followed by silence. Someone’s stormed off. To cool down he hopes, as opposed to gone forever. He guesses it was Dean. He always seems to run away lately, instead of facing things head on. Taking what he wants and needs…  
   
Cas shakes his head to derail that particular train of thought. It’s unhelpful and frustrating. He sits up and considers going to check on Sam, see if he wants to talk it out. Humans are just so domestic. And so is he, it would seem.  
   
As it turns out, he doesn’t need to get up. The remaining brother comes to him.  
   
And it isn’t Sam.  
   
There’s a chink of light from outside that floods his room as the door opens. Dean steps in. He knows it’s him. He can feel it. That tingle in the back of his mind. The source of light is promptly cut off as the door is pulled shut. Cas waits for the rush of light, expecting Dean to locate the switch. Instead, the dark, bulky, shape softly and silently moves closer. Those finely-honed hunting skills on display, sleek and deadly.  
   
Castiel swallows hard.  
   
“Dean?” He tilts his head curiously. “What are you doing?”  
   
No answer except for the dip of his bed as Dean prowls closer. And then, dear God, he’s crawling up his body, straddling him, weight causing the sheets to pin him to the bed. Castiel has to fight the urge to throw him off. This is Dean. Not some dangerous enemy. Not a danger to him anyway.  
   
When the dark outline of Dean’s face looms into view, obscuring everything else, Castiel realises what he wants.  
   
“Oh.” He says, before Dean’s mouth finds his and he’s kissing him hard. Harder than before. He’s pressing him into the pillow and impatiently pulling the sheets down so that he can fit between Castiel’s legs. One hand is angling his jaw painfully, so it falls open, allowing him access so flesh can slide along flesh. His tongue invading, causing Cas to groan deeply. _Finally._

When Dean breaks away for a moment, it is only so he can say: "You wanted me to show you."  
   
Dean kisses him again and it leaves him shaking as he remembers the meaning behind those words. His other hand slides down Cas' bare chest, digging nails in slightly which Castiel strangely likes. Especially when Dean’s thumb catches the peak of a nipple. It leaves him breathless; pushing his hips up against Dean’s, unbidden and restless. Pleasure zips up his spine, pools in his stomach making him fist the sheets from the hot sensation.  
   
This causes Dean to moan loudly, choked off as he grinds his hips back down twice as hard, an automatic response. And he is hard. Castiel can feel every inch and it has him sweating with want and alarm at how fast this is going. He shudders a gasp and Dean only pushes harder.  
   
He sucks at Dean’s lower lip, remembering how much he likes it and is rewarded with something akin to a growl and a longer, slower grind that has his mouth watering and every drop of blood running south. He’s shamelessly returning the gesture before he knows it, feeling like a wild animal because it’s crazy, dirty and good to just rut against him like this. He doesn’t feel an ounce of embarrassment at the desperate sounds he’s making. He wants this - has wanted this for so long. Rationality at bay.  
   
Deep down, he knows they’re better than this. They are more than this so he tries to slow it down. Breaks away to pull in air. Traces the solid curves of Dean’s shoulders, squeezing the muscles beneath soft cotton. He wishes he could see those beautiful eyes pooled in shadows, whether they are wide with awe or soft with desire. He can feel their intense focus.  
   
Dean finds a new plan of attack. He doesn't want gentle and grabs Cas’ wrists, pinning them to the pillow, either side of his head. Castiel can only stare up at him in something close to awe - wide eyed, open-mouthed, and painfully turned on - hot breath against wet lips making him shiver. Dean proceeds to soften the gesture of dominance by kissing along his jaw line, down to his neck where he kisses his pulse-point gently.  
   
Castiel freezes entirely, torn between wantonly baring his throat and fighting against the gesture of submission. Dean experimentally nips at his throat, biting at a tendon before messily licking a stripe against the damp flesh. Castiel grunts as Dean suddenly sucks hard, causing his vision to blur at he teases the sensitive skin with his tongue. His breath comes faster. He feels a surge of panic and he doesn’t know why. This is Dean. He loves Dean. Loves the things he does to him…  
   
An image of Naomi’s torture chair rises unbidden in his mind. Of being trapped like a snared animal as Metatron cut into his vulnerable, exposed throat, taking everything from him. He finds it a lot easier to push Dean away then.  
   
“Stop. Just stop.” He gasps. He bucks Dean off so he’s left sprawled over Cas’ legs looking befuddled.  
   
“What? What’s wrong?” He recognises that voice. It’s the fog of lust again.  
   
“No more.” Cas mumbles, pulling himself upright, massaging his neck as he tries to catch his breath.  
   
“What?” Dean repeats sounding less dazed now. “Jesus, look I’m sorry if I-“  
   
“It’s not you.” He admits shaking his head, pride stinging a little. “I just…”  
   
“What Cas?” Dean moves to the edge of the bed now. So they are no longer touching. He shakes his head sadly. “I thought you wanted… never mind. My mistake. I guess I should…”  
   
He can hear hurt and rejection in Dean’s voice and grabs his arm before he can slip away.  
   
“I just – I suppose you would say I have ‘a thing’-“ he makes an air quote gesture. “-about my neck. Ever since Metatron…” He tries to be matter of fact but his voice shakes a little. He settles for making a slashing gesture across his neck.  
   
He sees Dean go stiff in the gloom. He reaches over and turns Cas’ bedside light on. His face is awash with concern.  
   
“That sucks Cas. Real awful.” He says softly. Cas doesn’t want his sympathy and Dean knows it. “I guess we owe him a neck stabbing, the son of a bitch.”  
   
Castiel grins at that because it is strangely comforting and he’s touched by his anger. He can’t help but notice Dean’s hair, stuck up all over. His lips look red and swollen, eyes soft and heavy. He sighs and says reluctantly: “It shouldn’t be like this anyway. Not with you feeling so angry with your brother.”  
   
“Ew. Gross.” Dean sits back on his haunches, looking scandalised. “You don’t bring up a guy’s brother. Not after what we just did. Or almost did.” He grins slyly.  
   
Castiel rubs the back of his neck now, trying to calm down for a moment. “Is he coming back?”  
   
“What did I just say?”  
   
“Dean.”  
   
“Should be.” He pauses before running a hand through his tresses. “I don’t know what he wants me to say.” He admits with a sigh.

“The truth perhaps?” Castiel suggests gently.

A devilish grin spreads across Dean’s features. “Is that how it is? Trying to seduce the truth out of me now?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Castiel chides primly, suppressing a smile. “You came into my bedroom remember and accosted me?”

“Yes I did.” Dean admits in a low voice, eyes locked with Castiel’s. “You make it sound so sexy.”

Castiel nearly swallows his tongue until he realises Dean is probably making fun of him. He rolls his eyes and tries to control that annoying blushing sensation that keeps happening lately. He feels dizzy, out of his depth. He knows all about flirting, but was never any good at doing it back. He feels it’s better to just be straight forward when making your intentions known but acknowledges that not everyone feels the same. Some people find it plain creepy.

He doesn’t know what to do now. Can they just carry on where they left off? The wild wave of arousal has died down a little but just looking at Dean makes him want to try out a whole host of new ideas. He wants to be the one doing the pressing down. He wants to find that friction again, to be the one who-

“Do you really want me to stop?” Dean’s question cuts through his spinning thoughts. His voice is low, stare direct and earnest as if he can read every dirty little thought that just went through Castiel’s mind.

“No,” He responds after careful consideration. “But I want you to mean it.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning UST that may make your head explode.  
> Soon to be resolved...  
> Comments deserve cookies.

Embarking on a sexual relationship with Dean Winchester does not only feel good, it’s also proven to be very, very distracting.

For example, it's a bad thing to be caught staring at said Winchester's mouth/ass/general-hip-region by the younger Winchester. He's made himself stare at Sam more to cover this error but he doesn't think that leaves anyone feeling too good about the experience.

Also, instead of demanding an explanation for Sam’s recovery that night, he chose to allow Dean to vent his frustrations through sexual contact. They parted that night feeling extremely sexually frustrated, both in agreement that the memory of Metatron had spoiled the moment (Castiel kind of wants to stab him in the neck even more now). But the tension is still there, simmering, waiting for another opportunity.

Unfortunately, Dean has also realised how shamelessly easy he is to distract. And can, and will, use this knowledge to his advantage. For instance:

“I have decided to take a walk outside. Alone.” Castiel had announced one day, emphasising the ‘alone’ part. He’s feeling stifled by the constant presence of a babysitter. Army of angels or not, he wants his own space. Sam came back the next morning, still sulking. Between the two of them, there is a very gloomy atmosphere. He cannot stand this tin bunker any longer. He wants to feel the wind on his skin again. The silence in his head must be filled with the clatter of the outside world, a hazy replacement for ‘angel radio’ as the Winchesters call it. This life is not enough. He’ll go mad…

“Whoa Cas. Do you really think that’s a good idea?” Sam had enquired, quite reasonably. A dusty volume of demon lore spread out across the old oak table in front of him. Still on a ‘cure a demon’ kick it seemed.

“I didn’t ask for an opinion, though I thank you for your concern.” He adds as an afterthought. “I’m just letting you know of my intentions and that I do not need a minder.” 

And with that, he made his way to the heavy bulk headed door. But not before Dean could swoop by out of nowhere to lean close so he could whisper: “If you want to do something reckless, how about you come with me?”

His mouth went completely dry at that. Or more likely in response to what was not being said, but rather implied. Dean squeezes his arm, eyes locked on his own. He’s so close that Castiel could count every freckle across his face if he wished. 

“I said I want to go outside…alone,” He mumbles, forgetting the point entirely when Dean licks his lips – a brief flick of tongue but all too deliberate.

Dean leans in closer, practically trapping him against the door. “If you wanted that, you should have just slipped out quietly. I think you want someone to stop you.”

He opens and closes his mouth, lost for words. That is entirely unfair. For one thing, he had been talking to Sam. True, he had announced his intentions rather loudly, but not to address Dean in particular. 

“What are you doing Dean?” Sam’s voice, calling over from the table, makes them both realise they are not alone. He sounds concerned and Castiel thinks they must look like they’re arguing, both so tense.

He slips his arm out of Dean’s almost painful grasp, and reaches for the handle. 

“At least let me drive you somewhere! We’re practically in the middle of nowhere.” Dean insists, ignoring his brother’s question.  
He pushes the handle down, turns away.

“Please Cas. Let me get out of here with you.”

It’s the sincerity that has him sighing, and then nodding as they slip outside towards the Impala.

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

They end up nowhere special, but Dean had accomplished his goal. He’d successfully managed to assign himself to the unspoken role of Protector of Human-Cas once more. Through flirting. Castiel is very much aware of this and it puts him in a bad mood. That and the fact they end up in a rubbish diner when what he was pining for was fresh air and freedom.

“Come on now. Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it grumpy.” Dean smiles, eyes crinkling in the corners. “The burgers here are better than sex. Well, almost.” He adds, grin turning a little crooked and Castiel shakes his head, trying to remain stern.

Dean drums his fingers against the table top almost nervously as they wait for their bacon cheeseburgers with extra fries. A few minutes of this tense silence has Castiel snapping at his friend in no time.

“What is it?” He asks curtly.

“What is what?” Dean’s eyes widen too innocently as he takes a sip of his soda, lips pursing around the straw in a way Castiel has to admit is rather enticing. He has had to wear his shirt collar up at an awkward angle to the hide the mark Dean left against his skin. They haven’t mentioned telling Sam about the changes in their relationship, but he knows it’s best to be discreet until absolutely certain.

He fingers the edge of his collar subconsciously. The bruise – a hickey as is the technical term – left him with mixed emotions. Slightly dismayed that he was human enough to bruise so easily and undeniably aroused to an extent. It was a possessive mark. On his body. Made by Dean. A sign to the world that he had been somebody’s for a while. Someone cared enough, got lost enough in his body to want to leave a mark behind. A brand almost…

It was archaic, but he kind of liked it. Because that someone was Dean.

It’s a welcome distraction from the ghost of Metaton’s knife anyway. 

He once left a mark of his own on Dean’s skin. His own brand. He wants to see if it’s still there – to trace it with hands and lips. To make new ones the only way he can now. He realises that he could have remade Dean without the handprint marring his flesh. But he didn’t. He never cared to closely examine why that had been at the time. It had been a reminder of who Dean should be grateful to for rescuing from the pit. A warning to others that he was marked, protected. A burn from a desperate moment, when he had saved Dean Winchester and in that moment, he had been his, Castiel’s entirely. 

He was screwed the very moment he first laid a hand on that beautifully broken soul.

He clears his throat uncomfortably and focuses on the conversation at hand.

“Is there something you want to say to me?”

“No!” Dean insists indignantly. “Well… Yes. Maybe. Jeez you’re like a mind reader or something.”

“Not anymore.” Castiel says stiffly.

“Sorry, sorry… Foot in mouth yada yada.”

Castiel waves the apology away. “What is it you wanted to say?”

Dean pauses. He fidgets. Doesn’t meet Castiel’s eyes. This only increases Cas’ curiosity. He sits still and waits for it to come, still so patient.

“Are you still…?” His voice trails off going all high pitched at the end as if Cas should know what he means.

He doesn’t get it. “Am I still what?”

Dean huffs in exasperation, before blurting it out in a low voice. “Jesus I feel like a pervy douche-bag for even asking but…are you still a virgin, Cas?”

That really wasn’t what he expected to hear at all. Maybe: ‘still hungry?’ or ‘Still considering sexual activities with myself?’ (though Dean wouldn’t word it quite like that). He most certainly doesn’t know why it would cause Dean such discomposure. He answers in a normal (not quiet) voice:   
“No. I have participated in sexual activity if that’s what you mean. And not only with you.” He adds to clear up any confusion.

This causes their grey-haired waitress’ mouth to fall open as she dumps their orders on the table.

“Enjoy your meal,” She says dazedly, staring back and forth between Dean and Castiel. 

“Thank you,” Cas responds with a smile, sensing nothing amiss. Dean merely gives her his best and biggest grin, with no hint of embarrassment at all. At least until Cas adds:

“You remember my wife in name only, Daphne? The one who found me wandering naked with amnesia-“

“For God’s sake keep your voice down!” Dean mutters through the smile that becomes more and more strained as the waitress scampers off looking scandalised. “You wanna get carted off to the loony bin?”

“Loony?” Cas’ brow crinkles with confusion. “Bugs Bunny?”

“Off topic.” Dean hisses, hand slapping the table to get Castiel’s attention once more. “You had sex with that Daphne chick?”

“She was my wife.” Cas replies simply. “Though not lawfully of course, having no identity. It’s all a bit of a blur. Like it happened to someone else…”

He trails off at Dean’s expression. His face looks grim, jaw set before taking a huge bite of burger to cover up whatever expression his face was betraying. He looked mad. But why would he be mad? Castiel shrugs it off.

“What was wrong with her anyway?” Dean bursts out a couple of minutes later, just as Cas was beginning to enjoy his burger. “Who finds a naked dude with no memories, says ‘oh this here is one to take home to the folks!’ gets married, and bangs ‘em?” 

Castiel had to wipe a bit of burger off his face that Dean had lost during his little rant. He could only sit there, stunned, as the realisation hit him. “Are you jealous Dean?”

After a few minutes of doing a remarkably good impression of a goldfish, Dean managed to splutter: “No! Course not. No I am not jealous of you and your fake wife. Whatever you two did together while you lived your fake life is clearly none of my business.”

“But you asked-“

“Eat your burger!”

Castiel was left feeling as confused as when he had been an angel. Humans were always saying one thing and meaning another. It was so frustrating! It was a wonder they even developed the ability to communicate in the first place.

Dean was taking angry bites of his burger, not meeting his eyes. But he said he wasn’t jealous. Why should it matter if he’d slept with someone else? Dean wasn’t exactly as pure as driven snow! He contemplates saying this but realises that would probably make things worse. Punch-to-the-nose levels of worse.

Castiel drops the remains of his burger and sighs deeply. Pre-vessel Castiel would never become so wrapped up in something this trivial. But now, nothing seemed to matter more to him than this ridiculous human’s happiness. So entwined was their co-existence. It was baffling. He finds the right words to placate and pinches the bridge of his nose. A headache was coming on.

“You said it yourself; it was a fake life.” He says calmly and clearly. “Emmanuel may have thought he loved her, but that wasn’t me.”

He waits for Dean to look up before continuing. “My short time with Daphne has become a blur to me. We were…domestic. Intimate. But it wasn’t real. I didn’t feel it. It was as if something were missing. Some part of me. I wasn’t capable of love or sensation back then. Not really. Not like now.”

He forces himself to stop there because that’s too close to the truth; to another truth that Dean isn’t ready to hear yet.

“Well…okay.” Dean says, a little uncomfortably though his eyes were brightening up, like sunshine on a cloudy day.

They both sip at their sodas awkwardly. 

“There’s more, isn’t there?” Castiel prompts reluctantly. Dean doesn’t even bother to deny it before a whole pile of questions topple over.

“It’s just you said you wanted me to show you everything about sex...”

“Sex with you,” Castiel is clear to emphasise, realising he must have mislead Dean to believe he was still a virgin. 

“Ah.” Castiel has to lean closer because Dean has gone so quiet. “Well Cas, I hope you know I never… I mean, my area isn’t… It’s not really of the no-breasted variety.”

His eyebrows go up at that. “Are you saying you wish I was a girl?”

“What? Damn it Cas, no! No…” He sounds so unsure that Castiel is tempted to throw the rest of that drink in his face. Though he did see a girl on television do just that, so it would probably be an unwise action. 

But poor Jimmy Novak had died to give him this body. Dean should be more respectful. It's a part of him now, who he is whether they like it or not.

“I am a man now Dean,” He says slowly, as though talking to a simpleton. “There’s no way to work around that, I’m afraid.” He adds sarcastically, just as the waitress comes by to clear their empty plates.

“Oh. I’ll…just come back in a minute.” She stutters before swooping away again.

Dean smothers a laugh and Castiel flushes, thinking he’s being made fun of.

“Can we go now?” He asks icily.

“Hey now, come on! I wasn’t laughing at you. Not really, sit down.” He says, noticing Cas was about to storm off.

Castiel folds his arms and waits for him to continue, to explain. And it better be good. “I only meant… that I’m not that experienced when it comes to sex with guys. That’s all. Try no experience actually. None. Nada. Zero.”

He laughs nervously and pushes a hand back through his hair, making it spiky.

Cas narrows his eyes. “You’re having an insecure moment.”

“Exactly!” Dean nervous-laughs again. 

Castiel finds himself smiling gently at that. The levels of Dean Winchester are staggering. Just when he thinks he’s seen it all. “You don’t need to be nervous. I’ve never been with a man either.” He swallows hard, debating whether or not to say it at all. “It didn’t seem to be a problem the other night.”

Instead of his words relaxing Dean, he seems to become more intense, shoulders squared. “What else is wrong?”

“The other night…” His Adams apple bobs, betraying his nervousness. “I shouldn’t have just jumped you like that.”

Cas blinks a few times before responding in a rush. He doesn’t want Dean to regret it. That’s the last thing he wants. “I have no complaints. I liked it in fact.”

Dean goes very still at that before scrubbing a hand over his eyes. He crosses his legs for some reason. “Okay. Right, but just don’t go getting offended by this. I can literally feel myself growing a vagina just by mentioning it – but I don’t want to take advantage of you. I’m not going to be that guy.”

“What guy?”

“That Daphne!” He shouts in flair of inspiration.

“Daphne wasn’t a guy.” Castiel points out evenly.

“I know that.” Dean says on the verge of exasperation. “But she found you – confused, alone, memory-less. A blank slate. And she fashioned her own little house-husband out of you. That was… that was just wrong Cas. It wasn't you.”

Castiel feels his eyes widen at that. At the vehemence in his voice. He’d never thought of it that way before. He supposes it was strange, to marry a complete stranger, someone who didn’t even know their own identity. He clamps down on the urge to defend her, knowing Dean wouldn’t want to hear it. But she was a good woman. Kind-hearted, devout, a little lonely. All soft spirit and gentle nature. He pushes past the memory and focuses on what Dean is saying now.

“And how would you be taking advantage? I know who I am now, I’m giving you the advantage.”

Dean goes very still at that. Again. “Jesus. You shouldn’t be saying stuff like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s unbelievably hot.”

They stare at each other for a few minutes. Cas has to remind himself to keep breathing. 

“See?” Dean says, shaking his head a little. “You are so naive.”

He huffs at that. “Maybe I wanted to make you flustered.” Castiel suggests, though he was doing nothing of the sort. “And you still haven’t answered my question.” He insists, voice low.

He can literally see Dean shrug away the fog of lust again. “I'm not flustered! And my point is,” he shakes his head, gathers his thoughts. “Am _I_ like Daphne? You’re not in a good place right now. You’re newly human, all guilty and possibly hormonal-”

“I am not hormonal!”

“-And sad. Like, missing your family sad. And maybe even lonely... I don’t know, I’m saying this all wrong. I guess. I just don’t want to take advantage like that.”

There’s a long pause as Castiel processes his words. He understands where he’s coming from. But Dean doesn’t know the whole truth does he? And he can’t exactly tell him. He can’t tell him he’s always felt this way about him, even before the fall. He can’t let him know that this is what he’s always wanted, because he loves him, deeply. Because he’s the only thing that keeps him together sometimes, keeps him sane.

Sex is distracting.

“But you were emotional when you came to my bed the other night,” He makes his voice deliberately low, looks up at him through a curtain of lashes. He notices how Dean’s breathing hitches. “Did I take advantage of you?”

Dean exhales slowly. “You’re too smart for your own good,” He answers in a daze, eyes on Castiel’s lips. He swears under his breath. “God you have no idea what you do to me do you? I’m trying to be all chivalrous…”

“I don’t need you to be.” Castiel counters, feeling hot, lost in those eyes. “Stop mistaking me for some vulnerable idiot – I am still a warrior of God and I’m older than you can begin to fathom.” He notices Dean’s breathing gets heavier as does his own. “I know my own mind and I know what I want.” He says firmly.

Dean leans closer over the table, pinning him with those eyes, oblivious to other customers. His pupils are blown and Castiel feels trapped. “And what’s that then?” He hears the dare in his voice.

“You,” He answers simply, practically a growl.

He hears Dean swear under his breath again before he tears his gaze away to pull out his wallet and throw a few bills on the table.

“Home. Now.” He orders.

“But Sam…” Cas trails off, feeling hopeful. Perhaps Dean doesn’t mind whether Sam knows or not.

This is spiralling out of control and he is glad. Dean makes him feel like he can fly again. Cas had only meant to clear the air, not to seduce him into this state. Dean just seems to really have a thing for dominance. 

Dean pauses as he pulls on his jacket. “Oh right,” his face falls as he remembers his little brother’s presence. Castiel represses the feelings of hurt that Dean wants to keep him a secret. There’s no sense in pushing him after all. He’s already pushed enough.

“We passed a motel on the way here,” Castiel points out helpfully, sounding casual though he feels anything but.

The way Dean’s face simultaneously lights up and grows darker has Castiel’s mouth going dry.

“Let’s go.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the rating change? Uh...Yeah.  
> Reviews are appreciated. Thank you.

They pull into the motel car park, gravel crunching under worn tires. Such a rush yet for one long moment, all they can do is stare at each other in the sudden silence, eyes meeting over the gear box. 

Castiel clears his throat. “Do you still want to..?”

“Yeah.”

Dean is scrambling out of his beloved ‘baby’ before Castiel can process his answer.

Yeah. Yes. He said yes.

His heart is racing and his mouth has gone dry. There’s this strange rumbling sensation in his stomach - an odd combination of what must be nerves and a deeper underlying hunger. He stares out of the windshield for a few seconds, clenches his hands and takes a couple of steadying breaths. Tells himself to get a grip. He doesn’t get nervous. He once threw a Molotov cocktail of holy fire at his brother – a smite-happy archangel. In front of his other brother. Who just happened to be the devil. 

This situation seems scarier for some reason. 

But it’s _Dean._

He dives for the door handle and races after him, stumbling a few times in his haste.

\----------------------

So many times, so many motels have the Winchesters asked to share a room. They have been on the receiving end of many raised eyebrows, all from nosy receptionists who have drawn the wrong conclusions. 

This time their assumptions would be entirely correct.

Castiel doesn’t hear Dean request a room, doesn’t hear the curt exchange. The words wash over him. He stares at Dean’s elegant profile instead; feeling as though he has run a marathon, body tensed as though anticipating a fight. He sees the sardonic little smile light up Dean’s face as he grabs the keys, then grabs Cas by the arm and proceeds to drag him along to their room.

They barely make it inside when Dean’s hands are holding his face so that he can press insistent kisses against his mouth, slipping from rough and easy into desperate and bruising. They’re turned around somehow. That’s definitely the door against his back, closing with a final thump as Dean presses him against it. His hands are a gentle contrast in his thick hair. One of his own hands finds the firmness of Dean’s waist and settles there, gripping hard, pulling him closer. The other rests against the warmth at the back of his neck.

“Dean,” It comes out as a breathy moan which surprises them both.

The man in question pulls back a little, noses almost touching, bodies still pressed together, the faintest pressure. His eyes are soft, lips swollen and Castiel is lost against them for a very long moment. He tastes _real_. Sucks against Dean’s tongue, breathes against his lips. He thinks he could kiss Dean Winchester forever. Wonders if it would have felt this intense before he was human. They wasted so much time waiting. How can this be anything but right?

Dean pulls back so he can bury his face in the heat of Cas’ neck, breathing heavy, making skin damp. Castiel lets him have this, a moment to gather himself. It is overwhelming. He hears him swear, breathe his name like a prayer. Dean peppers his skin with soft kisses up the side of his throat until his lips rest against the shell of Cas’ ear.

“Need to know we can do this,” He murmurs. “Can we walk away and be okay?” His hands are getting restless as they run up and down Castiel’s arms.

“Yes, yes of course.” Castiel growls out, sliding his hands under layers so he can trail them over the smooth warmth of his back.

He feels the slight sting of teeth against his lobe, and nearly whimpers at how good it feels, soothed with more kisses. His head falls back against the door with a dull thump. His fingers clench and unclench against Dean’s skin and he forces them to relax. He wants more. Wants to let Dean in. He shudders as Dean slowly lays his lips against his neck once more.

“This okay?” He says softly, going slow as he kisses the sensitive skin, making Castiel shiver. Dean is helping him get past the bad memories, he realises. He wants to let go, likes having Dean’s mouth there.

He nods enthusiastically, closing his eyes. Hears Dean laugh lightly against his skin. When Dean peels back his shirt collar for better access, undoing the first few buttons, he bares his throat without listening to doubt or irrational fear.

When the heat of Dean’s mouth draws back, his eyes open so he can glare a protest.

He can see Dean’s gaze is fixed on his neck, eyes blazing. He gently thumbs at the bruise he left there a few nights ago and they both suck in a breath. It hurts, but it’s a good ache. A reminder that he was Dean’s for a while. Dean’s eyes are dark, face carefully blank. Castiel bites his lip and waits.

“I did this?” Dean asks, voice unsteady.

“Yes you did.” Cas’ voice is even rougher than it usually is. It feels raw. 

“Jesus. I really went to town on you didn’t I?” He sucks in a breath that makes Cas shiver when it skims down his chest. He sounds like an unusual combination of bitter and turned on. Castiel tilts his head, examines his expression as Dean tracks the movement, eyes fixed the bruise.

He doesn‘t want Dean to feel bad. Not at all. He wants to make him feel very, very good. “I liked it. Very much so.” He says boldly, voice barely above a whisper. 

Dean presses his forehead against Cas’ and closes his eyes, breathing deeply. Castiel is suddenly very aware that he is avoiding eye contact. His hips are angled strangely away so that Castiel’s hands lose their grip on his back. He settles for wrapping his arms around Dean’s upper body and is surprised to find he is shaking slightly, thrumming with energy.

“I shouldn’t be able to treat you like this.” He says quietly and it sounds like a confession. “You’re Cas. Don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.” He replies certainly. _Because you’re the only thing that keeps me sane. Because I need you too, because I love you_ \- he doesn’t let himself add. 

Castiel breathes in his clean masculine scent. He smells of gun oil, hair gel, faintly of that diner, and of something that is purely Dean - rustic and human. He rubs soothing circles against his back, giving comfort.

“I break the people that love me.” It’s so quiet that Castiel could choose to ignore it if he wished. 

He places his hands on Dean’s shoulders so that he may push him back a little. Just so he can look up at those eyes. Dean sees him through a screen of lashes and is so breathtakingly beautiful, Castiel nearly forgets his words.

He smiles as he remembers the simple truth. “I’m already broken.”

He slides his hands down his arms until he finds Dean’s, and links them gently together. He leads him over to the bed so they are able to sit down on the edge, hands still linked. 

He looks at Dean, licks his lips, a nervous habit. He’s afraid Dean has changed his mind but he still tracks that motion with a heated gaze, eyes flickering from eyes to mouth.

Castiel decides to take matters into his own hands. So to speak. “I’m going to kiss you again.” He announces, thinking it would be best to give some warning as he leans closer, tugging Dean’s hands a little to close the gap.

Dean laughs as their lips make contact, smiling into the gentle kiss. Castiel swallows every breath, his joy and relief. “You sure know how to get me feeling like a teenage girl, Cas.” He says as they pull apart.

“Shut up,” He chides, not prepared for the effect that smile has on him when this close. He feels giddy, breathless.

Castiel digs his hands into Dean’s hair, settles for another kiss. Dean’s eyelashes are soft against his face. It doesn’t take long for him to respond, mouth open, hot, wet and so ridiculously prefect he could laugh. He’s pushing Dean back onto the bed this time, taking charge. Crawling on top, he nudges his legs apart so he can settle between them. He gives him one long kiss before wordlessly pulling back with a wet smack. He leans back so he can savour the sight of a heavy-lidded Dean Winchester - mouth open and face flushed - looking up at him. 

He shimmies lower, so he can crouch atop Dean’s lap. This motion accidentally causes Dean to grunt with arousal, hands clenching on Cas’ denim-clad thighs. This makes him pause for thought before experimentally bucking down onto Dean’s crotch again, ever so slowly. Just the once. He grins with triumph when Dean cannot contain a groan. 

“Oh God,” He moans.

“Just Castiel.” He corrects teasingly, swooping down to claim another light kiss before pulling back. He is gratified when Dean tries to follow.

“Come on Cas!” Dean huffs out another laugh and Castiel cannot contain the smile that follows. 

Dean folds his arms under his head, content to just watch Castiel it would seem. He continues his exploration, tugging Dean’s t-shirt up the slightest bit so he can press light kisses against the exposed skin - his warm and surprisingly soft stomach. He can feel firm muscle underneath and curiously dabs his tongue against the area, tasting salt and a fine sheen of sweat, tracing the light dusting of hair with his fingertips. Dean flinches, squirms a little underneath him, breathes more heavily. He presses hands against the taut skin of his hips to keep him still and Dean opens his legs obligingly. For one long moment, he’s entranced by those hipbones. Palms the smooth heat of them before swooping down to kiss one. He runs his tongue along the slip of skin, curiously. Then experimentally sucks down hard. 

Dean’s hands find his hair as he makes a noise that is something between a moan and a ‘manly’ giggle. 

He pulls back, feeling gratified at Dean’s noise of protest. “What? Is this okay?”

“You here to tease me to death?” Is the waspish response.

He frowns to cover a grin and sits back on his haunches, keeping his hands to himself. He is actually good at this. Though admittedly, he desperately wants to follow the V-shaped line of his hips all the way down where they disappear beneath denim. His mouth practically waters at the thought. “Take your shirt off.” He orders flatly.

Dean raises his eyebrows at that. “Seriously?”

When Castiel folds his arms faux-huffily, Dean sighs, grinning like a cat that’s got the cream, eyes glinting. “Fine.”

He complies, but makes a show of it. Sitting upright so Castiel is suddenly very close, nestled firmly in his lap. Cas has to swallow hard at the predatory look in his eyes. He slowly peels the hem of his shirt up, bit by bit, muscles rippling. He tugs it over his head and chucks the offending garment away so it ceases to exist for them. 

There is suddenly miles of skin to explore - toned, golden, firm yet yielding. Castiel runs his hands over his chest, savouring the heat, the way Dean tenses, bucks up a little beneath him. He presses indents into skin, makes Dean laugh when he traces the muscles of his abdomen, nails lightly grazing. He finds the anti-possession tattoo, traces its stark lines before placing a messy kiss over it. Dean’s breath hitches as he scrapes his teeth over the mark, presses his cheek against the heat so he can feel his racing heart.

He pulls back to brush calloused thumbs over nipples, eyes on Dean’s so he can watch every minute reaction. When he gasps, Castiel swallows the noise with a heavy kiss that rolls like thunder. He breaks off and with a flash of inspiration, turns his attention back to his chest. Feeling daring, he sucks one of the hardened peaks into his mouth. He enjoys the rumbled of a groan Dean makes, almost a pained grunt. He laps with his tongue at the upraised flesh, alternating between soothing and rough when he scrapes his teeth over the nub.

Dean’s hands are back on his hips and he rocks into Castiel, unaware, the slightest movement. This makes him break off as the friction is almost enough to make Cas' eyes roll. He haphazardly palms the side Dean's face, holds him against his own, cheek to cheek so he can just breathe.

“How do we do this?” His voice is unsteady, soft and breathy, nothing like his usual low tones. He doesn’t want to ask, to admit how lost but right this makes him feel. Doesn’t want Dean to snap out of it, realise he doesn’t want him anymore. This fallen angel who just keeps letting him down.

He can feel Dean’s voice vibrate against his chest. “We just go with what feels good I guess.”

There’s a rush of saliva in his mouth at the images that conjures. He can feel the hard line of Dean where he wants just as badly. He wriggles slightly, savours the hot intake of breath against the side of his face.

“Cas…” 

That sounds beautiful he decides. More of that.

He kisses Dean’s temple before finding the whorl of his ear so he can make a suggestion: “You can be inside me if you like. I don’t mind.”

He’s proud of how steady his voice sounds.

Dean gasps a profanity against his ear which shouldn’t be as hot as he finds it. He pulls back a little and Castiel has to fight the urge to bury himself against his neck again, so direct is his gaze. His pupils are blown, lips swollen.

He looks like sin. Like everything a man might fall for.

“Jesus Cas, that is so fucking tempting you have no idea…” 

He skims his hands over the planes of Dean’s back, feeling him rock helplessly as if he was unaware of even doing so.

“But…” Castiel feels his face fall. But. Here it comes. The excuses. He doesn’t want him after all – why would he? This isn’t going to happen.

But no. He can feel how much Dean wants him.

“But?” He prompts, searching those deep green eyes.

“It’s just… You need stuff for that.”

“Stuff?” He echoes, uncomprehending. He sees a light flush rising behind Dean’s ears and is fascinated.

“Ah hmm.” Dean nods, biting his lip when Castiel rubs against him shamelessly, matching sets of desire meeting as he tries to taste that blush.

“What stuff?” He prompts, voice low and ragged.

“Well I dunno Cas, lube perhaps? Condoms? What do you think?” He swears again, sounding increasingly desperate. “We’ll just have to go with what feels good.” He repeats. “So unprepared…”

Castiel wishes now more than ever that he could still fly. He could get what they need in less than a minute. _Fuck you Metatron,_ he finds himself thinking once more.

“What’s going on in there?” He hears Dean whisper, his thumb finding that crease between his eyes.

When Castiel damns the scribe out loud and explains his reasoning behind it, Dean roars with laughter. And that’s good. Castiel likes that. He can feel the vibrations against his body. Can share his happiness.

“That’s the bit that annoys you? Inaccessible sex supplies?” He chokes out.

“Right now? Yes.” Castiel growls, grinding down to prove his point, causing Dean to cough.

“Don’t worry Cas.” He says, once sufficiently recovered, though still bright red. “There’s other things we can do.”

“What other th-“

Before he can get those words out, Dean has flipped their positions and pinned Castiel back to the bed. He presses down so they lie flush against each other. He can feel every inch of Dean. Dean can feel every inch of him. 

He grins triumphantly and fingers the hem of Castiel’s shirt. “Now how is this fair?” 

He then proceeds to slowly make his way up Castiel’s body, undoing the shirt, button by button, kissing a trail along the tanned skin as it is unveiled. Licking, nipping and teasing his way up, achingly slow.

“Oh.” Castiel fights back a blush, swallowing hard when Dean reaches his throat, clamps down and sucks another bruise on his right side this time, without any warning. A groan is ripped out of Castiel and his eyes flutter as he pushes his hips up into Dean’s. The hard line of him finds friction against Dean’s solid thigh and it leaves him aching.

“Ssshh…” Dean soothes against the damp skin, making him shiver. Cas grinds up against him as he pulls his face closer kissing him desperately, messily. 

Their hips are moving of their own accord now, fluidly and hard. Castiel has his hands on Dean’s waist, slipping in sweat, hard enough to bruise. They’re making noises like animals, trying to stifle them though hard kisses and bites. They breathe against each other’s mouth, explosions of air, sweating under too many layers. It shudders over the line of discomfort and Dean seeks to rectify this. He slips out of Castiel’s grasp, bobbing back to kiss away the noise of protest he makes. Cas’ arms feel empty during the time it takes Dean to slip his pants off but the sight is worth it in the end.

He tilts his head back the savour the way Dean strains against his boxers, encased in cotton. It’s so new that he’s left aching, desperate to touch. His body arches back, skin pulling over his hips in a way that makes him feel beautiful in this body. Dean must agree too as he can’t stop touching, hands never still for a moment, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

He reaches down between their bodies and wraps his hand around Dean’s cock. 

“Cas!” Dean chokes in surprise.  
Castiel is taken aback by the heat even through his boxers, the way Dean tilts his head back and moans when his hand shifts, like he can ever forget the image. He has to reach out and lick a line up his throat then, can’t not.

Dean is fiddling with Cas’ jeans then, hands shaking. He is far less graceful wriggling out of them than Dean was. Dean sighs as Cas lets go of his cock, hand sliding over the thick weight so they can break apart and shed more layers. He kicks his jeans away as if they have insulted him and ends up laughing with Dean, smothering their amusement with more deep kisses.

“Ready for this?” Dean murmurs against his stinging lips.

“What?” He asks stupidly.

Dean replies by shimmying out of his underwear. He is intoxicated by the sight beneath, the length and thickness of him. The way his cock is straining, bead of pearly moisture at the tip. He reaches down, slowly, a question in his eyes that Dean doesn’t say no to.

He gently thumbs at the slit, experimentally spreading that drop over the head. 

The noise Dean makes reverberates all the way through him, leaving him harder than ever. He presses against Cas’ hands so he encases the length within his grip, fingers circling obligingly. Anything to get Dean to make that noise again. 

“Ah ah Cas – not so tight.” 

“Sorry!” He immediately adjusts his grip, but doesn’t let go. He can’t. Doesn’t want to stop. Doesn’t know how to stop touching. He studies Dean’s face very closely, inches from his own. He shifts his hand slowly, relishing the soft warmth, a layer over that hard need. All for him. This makes him a little light-headed. He knows he’s doing something right when Dean’s eyes fall shut and he rocks into his grip, just a little.

“Ahh.” Dean bites his lip and Cas thumbs it from that grip with his free hand, kisses any mark away. 

They stay locked like that for a moment, Dean drinking in the pleasure Castiel was willingly giving him. Until his eyes shot open with realisation.

“Hmm you need to stop a minute.” 

Cas took in his flushed features, the helpless moans he was making, that feverish look in his eyes. Even his hips contradicted his words, shoving greedily into Castiel’s hand, growing sticky. “Why?”

A huff of laughter against his lips. “Because this isn’t just about me now take your god-dammed pants off!”

He thinks he’s kind of addicted to touching Dean, but he sadly complies, letting go so he can pull his own underwear off without a trace of embarrassment. Dean’s order was kind of arousing. 

He sees Dean taking in all of him and takes a moment to appreciate the sight before him, the long angular planes of Dean Winchester laid atop of him. He runs his slightly wet hands down the sweat-slicked expanse of his back, pressing into muscles, making him almost purr. He finds the softness of his ass and squeezes fingers gently.

Dean moans. “Stop pawing at me!” He laughs, cutting off into a groan when Castiel presses him down, writhing up against him. “Y-you sure you were an angel?” 

And that is the first time he is actually able to laugh at his supposed demotion to humanity. Dean coaxes it out of him, as natural as breathing. He has to kiss Dean for one very long moment then, claiming the smile as his own. He feels Dean thumb at the laugh-lines around his eyes, smiling fondly down at him.

“You’re asking for it now,” he murmurs, voice low.

He wraps his own hand around the length of Castiel confidently, causing him the shudder out a deep moan that he could be embarrassed about later. Right now, he shoves his hips up, seeking more warmth, more friction. He stills because he doesn’t want this to be over so quickly, closes his eyes, swallows hard, counts to ten.

“Still with me?” 

Dean thumbs at his tip, spreading moisture and Cas swallows a whimper, eyes squeezed tight as he nods desperately. Dean kisses him again as he slides his hand up and down, slowly – painfully slowly. That hand is bliss. That hand is pulling him into pieces in slow motion. He tries to shove his hips up, but Dean holds him down. He can only moan helplessly, lost in the sensation of his hands. Almost too much.

Before with Daphne… it was nothing. _Nothing_ like this. Nothing compared to this. There’s lights behind his eyelids. He’s struggling to breathe and thinks he may possibly be having a heart attack. Or at least, Dean must be able to hear his heart thumping. He moans wantonly, not caring who might hear.

“Yeah…” Dean murmurs. “I got you. Just like that.” His voice is soft and breathy.

Treacherously, he feels the bliss of Dean’s hand slide away. His eyes snap open and he’s about to ask what the hell Dean thinks he’s doing when he cups his balls lightly, squeezes gently. His lower stomach muscles spasm, tense up.

“Oh Dean…” He groans as Dean slides his hand to the soft underside of his leg. Dean stares directly into his eyes as he jerks that leg up and around his waist. Then carefully, thrusts forward, cock making contact where Cas’ leg meets his waist, slipping in the sweat that’s pooled there. He sees Dean’s face go slack with pleasure as the hard length of him makes contact.

“Fuck, Cas. _Castiel_ …”

His name sounds like a filthy prayer and something in him snaps. He wantonly grinds against Dean then, aiming to make every thrust flawless. They writhe against each other, eye contact only breaking when they close in pleasure. They roll together, fitting perfectly. Castiel’s hand is in Dean’s sweaty hair, the other grips his arm fiercely, digging into muscle. His leg aches where Dean holds it tight at the perfect angle. They’re practically snarling now, pace quickening to a brutal speed, hurling towards the finish line. Nearly violent in its passionate, desperate race for completion. The only sounds are of them panting and the slap of slick flesh. It’s obscene. 

Castiel always imagined there would be something wistfully romantic about their first time together. But he can’t deny this. Can’t hope to stop this. It’s gritty, brutal, hard and real. His teeth clack together; his head keeps hitting the headboard when Dean jerks against his sweaty body, another undeniably hard thrust that is more than good enough. It’s wild, dirty and so, so good.

Sweat eases their way, he ruts against Dean’s hip, harder than he’s ever given, getting so close. Dean’s hand keeps slipping against Castiel’s thigh and he has to keep hitching it up to adjust his grip. His other hand is restless. It bites into his hip, scratches down his chest, cups his jaw so he can press merciless kisses at the right angle. They leave sticky marks against each other’s skin as they fall together. It is nothing short of explosive.

Castiel rakes his nails down Dean’s back as they jolt together, pulling him closer. Heat pools in his stomach, his balls feel tight, cock unbearably hard as he finds friction against Dean’s body, free foot flat against the bed, pushing up. The pleasure builds and builds as he gets more desperate, pushing up against Dean, using his body. They break apart every now and then to find the perfect angle, to readjust and avoid oversensitivity. 

He finds his release first and comes hard, eyes rolling, biting his lip so he doesn’t scream. The hot sensation goes on and on, hitting himself and Dean. He thinks he may have blacked out for a second when his vision goes dark after the initial flash of light. He tastes blood from his lip and would surely fall bonelessly against the damp sheets if Dean were finished.

He’s still grinding, muttering obscenities, so close now. He rambles, apologising for wanting this so much, for needing it exactly like this. Calling Cas beautiful as he finishes, groan coming from deep within. Every movement jolts his body. Dean drops his leg and presses down hard one last time. 

Castiel holds him as he falls apart; telling him it’s okay, that he wants this, that Dean can have this whenever he wants. Dean buries his face in his shoulder and bites down to silence his release, making Cas yelp.

When Dean eventually lets go, shuddering to a finish, Castiel’s shoulder is throbbing. Dean licks lazily at the indents as Cas tries to catch his breath. He runs his hands up and down Dean’s naked back. His hip aches and his mind is a puddle of pleasure. When Dean pulls back, they look at each other carefully, waiting for someone to break the silence, breathing heavy as the moment hangs suspended. Dean is still on top, arms either side of Castiel’s head on the pillow.

But what can you possibly say? Castiel wonders. They have changed each other forever. Changed their friendship into something else and there’s no going back. That was very animalistic and Cas enjoyed it immensely… but is that something people tell each other?

He’s at a loss, brain cells not working properly when Dean finally slurs:

“Being human. S’not so bad now is it?”

Castiel’s laugh is fond, if not a little hysterical.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is very obviously going a different way to S9 (did you see the sneak peak?!).
> 
> Thanks for the Kudos. You guys rock.
> 
> The aftermath...

“Nothin’ good on. Not even a decent porno – what kind of motel _is this?_ No Magic Fingers either…”

Castiel raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t pause to ask as he continues to trail two fingers down the naked planes of Dean’s back. He presses down, steals the graceful warmth from his body, fingertips tingling.

Cas smiles down at the goose bumps his touch raises, tracing the pink lines his nails had made earlier. “Do we need pornography?” He asks pointedly.

“Huh. Guess not.” He can hear the teasing smile in Dean’s voice and tries to contain a grin, unsuccessfully. He feels too happy, content, weightless. He’s never felt this relaxed before. Such a contrast to his first weeks as a human. The loneliness, hunger, guilt and horror… He sighs and skims his hand down Dean’s back, relishing the sigh the action elicits, getting lost in the motion.

He watches over Dean, sat beside him on the bed as he channel-hops on a beat up, old television set. Dean lies on his stomach, head pillowed against an arm, both warm and naked. Sunlight filters through garish yellow curtains, casting a golden glow over Dean’s skin. It’s enticing.

Castiel doesn’t know how he’s ever going to stop wanting this. The desire for Dean is worse if anything. Now he knows the way he moves, the sharp line of pleasure and pain, the sounds he makes against his skin. He’s never wanted anything on the level Dean inspires. He doesn’t know if this is natural or some leftover ‘angel mojo thing’ as Dean would say. How can he stop touching? If he were still an angel, he would be scared of marking him again with the intensity of his emotions. 

If he were still an angel, would he be able to feel this way at all?

He pushes that thought aside, expression falling. He knows that someday he may have to make a choice. He might be able to get his grace back, like his sister Anna before him. It’s what he’s longed for. But then what? Could he stand to forget all this? To lose the intense way he can now feel? To fall back into that marble-like perfection? He’s not so sure anymore. Unsure if he would even be capable of loving Dean. No. of course he would. He thinks he loved Dean before, as best as he could. Dean changed him to the core. He has died to love him.

All that is irrelevant, he decides. Would Dean want to lie with him again anyway?

Castiel runs the flat of his hand down that smooth expanse of skin, and Dean doesn’t exactly protest. He feels a light rumble reverberate down his spine, almost like a purr. He smiles more broadly. Castiel knows this body. Rescued it, restored it, brought it back to life. But that soul… no one could create that. 

He misses the sight of it. It is uniquely Dean, so full of contradictions. Light and darkness, strong and fragile, beautiful and fierce. Filled with love and passion with the shadows of self-loathing. That is what he saw at a first glance in Perdition. No wonder he fell. 

Dean switches off the TV and cradles his head in his folded arms. He can see it. The faintest imprint now on his bicep. Red marks, slightly raised, forming the shape of a huge hand print. Still there – still a part of him, always.

He lays his now human hand over the mark gently and breathes. It’s twice the size. Dean goes still, the easy rise and fall of his breathing slowing. He peers back at the fallen angel.

“You okay, Cas?” He allows his fingers to overlap Cas’ atop the handprint. A spark goes through Castiel at the touch.

“I gripped you tight in Perdition…” He trails off, thoughts a mess.

“Yes you did…” Dean prompts gently.

But it’s easier to lose himself in Dean. With his other hand he ventures lower, caressing that juncture where his lower back slopes into the softness of his buttocks, shapely and inviting. He palms that warmth, needing to touch, to leave pale imprints behind. He squeezes and Dean gasps, holding still as Castiel digs his fingers in, breathing stuttering. His other hand joins in to grip the other cheek, transfixed. He stays away from the enticing cleft, instinctively knowing that’s a conversation for another day. He finds he is suddenly obsessed with two dimples either side of his lower back, just above Dean’s ass. He briefly leans down so he can dip his tongue into each in turn; presses his thumbs into the dips above his thighs. 

“Cas!” Dean cries out, sounding shocked. He groans comically. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

Castiel hums non-committedly and sits up once more, hands regretfully leaving the globes of that wonderful ass. They continue to slide up and down his back, restlessly, meaning to soothe, not excite.

Dean peers over his shoulder, eyes relaxed. “See something you like?” He makes a kissy face and winks.

“Yes.” Cas nods enthusiastically, completely serious, causing Dean to roll his eyes.

“You know what we both need?”

Castiel is using both hands now to trail idle patterns over Dean’s body. “What?” He asks a little shyly, feeling hopeful. He’d quite like to do more stuff to and with Dean as he feels almost recovered. It’s a struggle to remain so calm when the sight before him makes his blood want to pool south.

“Pie,” Dean answers decisively, single-handedly dousing any growing ideas within Castiel’s mind.

“Pie?” He repeats uncertainly, just in case it’s slang for something filthy. Deep down, he knows it isn’t. Dean’s love of pie knows no bounds. He feels a flurry of disappointment.

Dean rolls onto his back and Cas has to fight to keep eye contact. “Seriously, Cas. A slice of apple pie after sex… You got no idea.”

Dean looks so hopeful, his smile so bright, that Castiel cannot possibly protest. What he really thought they needed was more sex after sex but never mind. He is an ancient being. He can and will control himself.

He shrugs, giving up the fight. He can feel Dean drawing away already. Does he already regret the closeness of before?

\---------------------------------------------------

After, they just held each other – something so small that means so much. Dean wiped them down with a pair of boxers, limbs heavy, and after discarding them, rolled back into the heat of Castiel’s arms. 

The faced each other, side to side, sharing warmth as the sweat cooled on their bodies. Cas could count freckles, could see the flecks of gold in Dean’s sleepy eyes. It was like the easiest thing in the world.

Castiel tangled his legs with Dean’s, pulling him closer. Dean threw an arm over his waist, casually drawing him in as he snaked a sheet over them. They lay like that, within the sleepy-warmth of an embrace, room smelling of sex, raw and real. Castiel thoughtlessly touched Dean’s cheek, lightly grazing before tracing his lower lip. He kissed him slowly before settling that hand on his hip, needing the smoothness. He tingled all over, pleasantly numb.

“Don’t want to move…” Dean groaned, causing Cas to grip him tighter, in case he decided to do so. He could feel his heart beating against his own. Why would he ever want to leave the circle of Dean’s arms? 

“I don’t think my legs are working properly yet anyway.” He answered, surprising a huff of laughter from Dean.

“Trust me, I know.” He grinned smugly and Cas just had to collect that smile with another kiss, drawn to his light. “We gotta do _that_ again at some point though.”

Dean sighed, eyes slipping shut, leaving Castiel fighting a flood of arousal and hope caused by his words. He looked so peaceful, lines smoothed out, breath hot against Cas’ neck. He held him and felt something swell within. 

There was another sigh as Dean murmured: “Why haven’t we done that before?” He sounded incredulous.

He knows Dean’s question is rhetorical and this is the only thing that stops him from delving into a deep analysis involving lies, angelic unawareness, amnesia, Purgatory with a vampire, mental health issues, and the barriers of an interspecies relationship when crossed with limits caused by the delusion of heterosexuality. 

He thinks they’re doing pretty well, considering.

\----------------------------------------------

He’s seen the fall of ancient civilisations. Soared amongst the heavens, been worshipped throughout history. He has risen from the dead like Christ and Lazarus before him. Has lived a thousand lifetimes, but never has he felt more complete, more at peace, than when he held Dean Winchester.

He hopes he gets to do it again.

\-------------------------------------------------

Dean’s putting clothing on. This is a bad thing. He says as much and Dean has a good laugh at that.

“Well you can go down the whole naturist route if you like - I sure know I’d appreciate it – but I prefer the prison-free lifestyle myself.”

Castiel glares as the last of Dean’s flesh is hidden out of sight. Stupid clothes. He scoops his own up and stomps off into the bathroom to have a quick wash. He isn’t very thorough, in no rush to lose the scent of Dean on his body. He examines himself in the mirror and lets out a low whistle. The new hickey lies on the other side of his throat from the last. This one is glaringly red, a perfect, pouting shape.

He does clean the bite on his shoulder, even if the skin is unbroken. It looks angry - puffy, and there’s a little circle of bruises forming the shape of Dean’s mouth, some purpling. He shakes his head with faint amusement. It was hot at the time but now he looks like a damn chew toy.

That’s nothing to say of the finger marks on his hips or the deep ache of his thigh where Dean had hoisted his leg up. He relishes that good ache, smiles to himself. He wonders how he’d be walking if they’d had the right supplies on them. His heart hammers at the thought as he realises he wouldn’t mind finding out.

\-----------------------------------------------

They end up back in the diner, collar neatly adjusted to hide from the world. It’s as if they’ve fallen into a parallel universe where the last three hours never happened. Even the waitress who brings them pie is the same as before. She serves them with a wary smile.

The ache in Cas’ leg and shoulder reassure him he hasn’t lost his mind. As does the way Dean looks at him now. The way he doesn’t shift his leg away when they meet under the table. 

“So… Is it good?” Dean asks indistinctly, mouth crammed with pie. He devours the generous slice with appreciative enthusiasm, eyes rolling, practically inhaling it. Castiel feels absurdly jealous of that slice.

“It was incredible.” He answers ardently without thinking, referring to their time together, because it was. His legs go wobbly at the mere thought and-

Dean guffaws, looking both proud and delighted. “I meant the pie, but hey! Good to know…”

Castiel flushes. “Oh. Yes. Yes, it is a very good pie.”

“You’re adorable.” Dean proclaims, washing the last bite down with coffee. Cas follows suit, meeting Dean’s eyes. He _does_ love coffee. He’s lost for words at that declaration. At the way Dean smiles so fondly at him, eyes crinkling.

“You know,” He clears his throat awkwardly, not meeting Castiel’s eyes. This causes him to immediately fear a rejection. Unnecessarily though, as it turns out. “This afternoon… that was only the tip of the iceberg Cas.”

He feels his face pull into a confused frown. “What iceberg?”

“Of what we can do together.” Dean’s voice goes very low and eager. It does things to Castiel’s internal temperature. Suddenly the whole diner burns away until it’s just them.

He leans forward, acting casual to hide his racing heart. “Really?” 

Dean nods. “If you want...” He adds, exposing the slightest hint of insecurity.

“I want.” Castiel confirms without a shadow of hesitation.

“Good.”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Okay then.”

“Great.” 

“Is this weird?”

“Not at all.”

“Can we not tell Sam?” Dean pauses, looking away for a moment, almost guilty. “Not just yet anyway. He’s got a lot to deal with and…”

“It’s fine,” Castiel brushes the request aside, pretending not to care. He feels like he’s close, so close to something. To having Dean again in the future, to claiming him, making him his even if he doesn’t know it.

He smiles slowly as Dean lets out a sigh of relief.

“Thanks Cas. Thanks for being so ridiculously cool.” He grins, leaning over to briefly place his hand on top of Castiel’s. He smiles brightly back at him.

“Now finish your pie, my little, not-so innocent fallen angel.” The smile he gives him is quite predatory and Castiel nearly chokes on his mouthful as he laughs nervously. 

He thinks they are going to be okay.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The truth has a habit of coming out. Always.

Castiel sleeps. And when he sleeps, he dreams. 

Tonight the stars are falling, falling all around him. He tries to catch them but they slip through his fingers, fading into something insubstantial, disintegrating into stardust. He weeps for their loss, screams out into the cold, dark abyss of the sky to no avail. He wakes up in a sweat, tears streaming down his cheeks.

He rolls over in bed and is alone in body and mind. He feels so _small_. No comforting whispers from the garrison. No flicker of the alien humanity that was Jimmy Novak. No Dean to offer comfort with his body and presence alone. They haven’t progressed to that yet. It’s their secret. He wants to cling to him right now. To open up and let Dean push inside. To be filled again, to take comfort and _give_ … 

He scrubs at his eyes, wiping cooling tear tracts away, trying to breathe steady. He won’t go to Dean. Not like this. Even if he is the one thing that could begin to make him feel whole again. Their first time together should not be about despair. It’s hard to remember this when his skin is itching. When the craving for Dean’s touch runs so deep, he has to dig his fingers into his palms to distract himself. Force his body not to seek shelter in Dean’s room.

He shakes off the last vestiges of that last painful dream, and waits for morning to come. 

\---------------------------------------

“I really don’t see the point in this Dean.” Though admittedly, he’s enjoying the closeness this exercise provides an excuse for. Dean. Standing an arm’s length away. Looking all serious - or at least trying to. The corners of his mouth keep twitching though his eyes remain intent. The itch is back and he has to fight not to step right into Dean’s personal space. He is in control. He is not some over-sexed teenager, no matter how Dean may make him feel.

They are sparring. In a freezing cold, empty room in the ‘Batcave.’ It has rubber floors and walls reminiscent of an insane asylum, but this doesn’t seem to bother Dean much, who proclaimed it would make an ‘awesome’ training room.

“You’re all human and squishy now, Cas. Gotta keep in shape.” Says Dean, grinning broadly.

Castiel opens his mouth to protest being ‘squishy’ in any way, shape or form when Dean lands a light blow squarely to his chest. Castiel doesn’t even stagger, merely tilts his head in confusion and blinks a few times.

“That didn’t hurt very much.”

Dean sighs, “I’m not trying to hurt you. C‘mon Cas, dance around a bit. You‘re a sitting target.” 

Castiel watches in amusement as Dean proceeds to ‘dance’. This seems to involve bouncing around lightly on the balls of his feet like a toddler that needs to wee. Castiel keeps this piece of information to himself though, enjoying the sight before him. 

This whole situation is highly amusing to him. Dean goes through the concept of blocking, intending to help Castiel learn the key tactics self-defence. His warm hands position Cas’ arms into the best blocking positions, lingering a shade too long on bare skin. It’s quite sweet really, that he’s feeling so protective. Not at all annoying that he’s being underestimated again.

“Now I’m no expert. Generally I just punch the sucker in the face until they stay down. Seems to do the job,” Castiel nods intently, pretending to take in his words as if they were gospel whilst dodging several of Dean’s blows with ease. Dean grins, looking proud. “That’s it exactly!”

Castiel has to roll his eyes at that. He goes through the motions for a little while, trading soft hits to humour Dean. Until his patience runs out and he just has to knock Dean’s feet from under him with a low, swift kick. He pins him to the soft floor, hands either side of Dean’s head so his eyes go wide.

“Cas!” He splutters.

“Do you forget that I’m nearly old as time itself?” He presses the full length of his body to Dean’s, suppressing a smile at Dean’s shocked expression and resulting light shiver. “I do know how to fight, Dean. Not that I don’t appreciate your efforts to educate me.”

And with that, Dean bucks up far harder than expected. Using the moment to his advantage, the eldest Winchester uses his weight to flip their positions, face inches from Castiel’s and looking pretty smug about it. His smile is blinding. “Getting a bit shabby there old man.”

He opens and closes his mouth, feeling an unsettling mix of slightly winded and ridiculously aroused. The ground is cold down his back, a contrast to the startling heat of Dean’s body. He tries to press closer, wriggling slightly. “That’s unfair.”

“Fights never are fair in my experience,” The smile slides off Dean’s face. “Not for us anyway.” He amends.

And simply because Castiel wants the sunshine back, he lifts his head and closes the gap between their mouths, tries to kiss the sadness away. Their lips move almost gracefully, sliding against each other. Dean’s mouth opens instinctively. His hand moves to cradle the back of Castiel’s head as they press closer. It’s gentle, yet searing. The room no longer feels so cold anymore.

Dean pulls back a little, smile back in place. “Okay, so maybe I knew you were never going to the Karate Kid to my Mr Miyagi.”

“Who?” Castiel mumbles, head spinning. 

“Maybe I just wanted to get on top of you again.” Dean clarifies waggling his eyebrows like a fiend. It makes Cas laugh until Dean presses his body down in a way that has him shuddering with pleasure. Unmistakably, he’s not the only one affected by their closeness. He experimentally rubs the firmness of his thigh against Dean’s growing hardness, swallowing the gasp the action elicits. Castiel feels hot, light-headed. Hours of nothing around Sam, secret smiles, brushing past each other as they remain separate. Trying hard not to stare, to remember. Are they going to be reunited, right here on this cold floor? A desperate act of lust and recklessness? He doesn’t think he minds at all.

“Dean…” He lets his hand brush the back of his head, pulls his mouth back down again. 

They remain like this, pressed close, trading lazy, sloppy kisses as if they have all the time in the world. As if their heartbeats were unlimited. This is how Castiel always wants to be. Lost in the comfort of each other as if they were completely alone.

The steel door clangs open.

“Guys, I think I got something about this aaahh…” Sam’s noise of surprise is more of a shocked exhale. They break apart immediately, Dean springing to his feet whilst Castiel can only lie there, suddenly cold but unconcerned. “Excuse me!” Sam chokes out, a hysterical bubble of laughter in his voice as he scuttles back out of the room again.

“Sammy wait!” Dean’s legs flash past him, quick footfalls landing heavily on the floor.

By the time Castiel has scrambled into a sitting position, he is alone with his thoughts once more.

\----------------------------

It’s not like he is concerned by Sam finding out. Not really.

Sam will understand – he hopes. He is however, unsure of how Dean will react. A part of him feels like Dean hasn’t really processed the changes in their relationship. Now he has to.

Castiel knows they have nothing to be ashamed of and is happy if it means they can be more open around Sam. How can that be a bad thing? Some of the most appalling, shameful moments of his existence have stemmed from dishonesty where the Winchester’s are concerned. This new life is a clean slate, a chance to be truthful, to not let them down again. He wants to spend it with Dean if he will have him. And with Sam of course. There’s no separating the two, even if he wanted to. Sam is good. Sam is kind. He won’t be angry with them. He’ll see sense.

Castiel licks his lips and pulls himself to his feet, unsure of whether or not to follow. He thinks he should give the brothers some space. As long as Sam can make his peace with his brother’s new relationship, he doesn’t see why this should be a bad thing. No more sneaking around. More time together and no excuses needed.

Perhaps he is being a little naïve, but as far as Castiel is concerned, very little has changed concerning their relationship anyway. He has always loved Dean. Now he can show it. Act on such urges. Now he can love Dean and is capable of feeling it all as a human.

As long as Dean doesn’t change his mind now Sam knows. Decide to go back to what they once were. But why would he? And how could anyone expect him to bear such a falsity?

\--------------------------

 

“I’m not angry.”

“Shocked then?”

“Yeah, a little.”

“But you _are_ angry. Just admit it.”

“Dean, I’m not angry!”

“Now you sound angry.”

“Because you're being annoying!” Sam throws his hands up in exasperation. “I just need to process this for a minute okay?”

They sit facing each other, across the grand, oak meeting table. Sam keeps putting his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes as if to wipe out a certain memory. Dean sits as still as he can, fingers tapping anxiously across the polished surface, betraying his cool exterior.

“That wasn‘t how I wanted you to find out.” Dean admits softly, but this produces no response from his brother. “Come on Sam. Why are you being so quiet? You must have a million things you want to lecture me about. Go on - get to it!” He holds his hands up in surrender.

“I’m quiet because I’m in shock.” Sam states, looking up calmly. “I did just basically see my brother going at it on the training room floor with my ‘honorary’ brother.”

“Argh! Gross Sam! First of all, we weren’t ‘going at it’. He adds venomous air-quotes, going red. “Just kissing - stop pulling faces! - and second of all, don’t go calling him our brother like I’m some kind of incest-happy pervert!”

“I’m sorry Dean, that’s just how I see him.”

“Well I don’t.”

“Given the circumstances, I’m glad to hear it.” Sam says nonchalantly, eyebrow quirked with wry amusement. 

Dean gives him his best death glare. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

Sam ignores that. “So… Just how long have you been keeping this from me anyway?”

“Really? You really want to talk about boys and relationships with me?” 

“Nice try with the macho-avoidance crap. How long have you and Cas - ”

“- Me and Cas. I don’t think I’m ever gonna get used to that you know.” Dean sighs, smiling in spite of himself.

“Dean.” Sam’s eyes are gently appealing and his elder brother never could hold out against that.

“Only the past week.” He admits reluctantly. “And are we really talking about this? Shall I set the aromatherapy up or do you want to skip straight to the gossip and pillow fight?”

“You don’t have to get all defensive.”

“I’m not! Just drop it okay? Me and Cas? Off-limits. It’s new. It’s private. I don’t even know what it is, so stop pushing.” He emphasises those last words, pushing up to his feet before pacing the hall.

Sam clears his throat. Waits.

He begins carefully. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for you two. Mental scarring aside, I knew there was always something there between you guys. I just… I guess I never knew you liked men.”

“God-dammit Sammy!” Dean bursts out, turning red. “Would you leave it? Or I swear to God I’m driving off the edge of the Grand Canyon, right now.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.”

Dean makes a sound like a deflating hot-air balloon before slumping back down into his seat again.

“And it’s not guys.” He admits quietly, fight going out of him. “Just him.”

“Oh.” Sam waits again, sensing there is more Dean needs to get off of his chest, but knowing his brother well enough not to push.

“And what would it matter if it was guys anyway? Careful Sammy now, your HOMOPHOBE is showing.”

“Very funny Dean.” Sam raises his eyebrows. “You know I wouldn’t care about that, it’s just…”

“…What?”

“I don’t want either of you to get hurt. Cas isn’t a regular guy remember? I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Could you be a little more patronising please? You know how much I love it.”

“Dean. I’m trying to help. I’m just concerned.” Dean snorts at that.

“You think I’m going to hurt Cas?” He laughs bitterly. “That’s a joke.”

“Come on, I’m not exactly saying that. You should know that he’s pretty new to this human thing. He reacts differently to stuff…”

“Spit it out Sammy.”

“You can’t go into this half-heartedly. Because I don’t think Cas will.”

“SAM!” 

“He’s old-fashioned…”

“Stop now please!”

“…Like _ancient-being_ old fashioned. Seriously, he holds open doors for strange women and blushes when sex gets mentioned on cases.”

“We are not having this conversation!”

“…Just make sure you both know where you stand.” Sam concludes gently. “I don’t want you guys getting hurt.”

Dean takes in his brother’s earnest expression and sighs. “That’s a laugh. As if I’d ever hurt Cas. As if I _could_.”

“I don’t follow.”

Dean shakes his head, not going there. “Doesn’t matter. But trust me, you got nothing to worry about here. We’re still us. Cas and Dean. Same as we’ve ever been but with awesome sex.”

“Ew no! Don’t ever say stuff like that to me!” Watching Sam flail makes Dean smile broadly. He’s glad to have covered up that raw moment. Something he secretly thinks but will never confess. Sam mercifully lets the moment pass.

Because the truth is, deep down, he always thinks people never need him as much as he needs them. That is why he feels he would be incapable of hurting Castiel. Everyone leaves him in the end.

It’s true of everyone he’s ever cared about. He always seems to need them more. From the day Sam chose Stanford over him. Then demon blood. Then Ruby. Even Amelia while Dean was lost in purgatory. Benny chose to stay in that hell too. His father chose hunting over being a real dad. Even Lisa and Ben were better off without him in the end.

Deep down, there’s a part of him that thinks Castiel wouldn‘t be here with him if he still had his wings.

Dean shrugs off the thought, painting a false smile over his features. “So, this chick-flick moment over Sammy or what? Or do I have to give you more details about my tantric new sex life with our beloved Castiel?”

Sam’s pained protests are the sound of victory.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So…this is basically PWP. Well, you waited long enough! And yes, this relationship is becoming deliberately co-dependent. Let me know if you liked this chapter. My first full love scene. Anywaaaay...

And so the timid courtship of adolescents begins.

That, at least, is what Castiel is forcibly reminded of, with every shy smile that passes between him and Dean. Every time they resist a public display of affection to not further traumatise Sam. Sometimes he thinks they started running before they could truly walk. And now it feels like they are struggling to get to know one another again, in a more intimate manner.

Like now, for example. Dean is kissing a line down his neck, agonisingly slow, wet kisses, trailing down to the hot firmness of his sternum. Castiel gasps and squirms a little under the assault against his damp skin. The only sounds are the noises Dean’s mouth makes against his body, and his own ragged breathing. 

Shirtless make-out sessions on Dean’s bed once Sam has left the bunker... Slightly adolescent, yet right now he’s finding it hard to care.

He runs the flat of his palm down Dean’s spine and practically makes a keening sound when the hunter responds by mouthing at his nipple. A scrape of teeth and the warm, wet heat of a mouth makes his head spin. Dean sucks down on one and pinches the other with deft, merciless fingers.

“Dean…” He trails off, bucking up a little against his thigh, vision blurring at the edges. They are supposed to be talking. They are supposed to be discussing something important, something potentially game changing…

Shrugging off the fog of lust, he remembers. Sam knows.

Sam is like a brother to him. He doesn’t want to upset the youngest Winchester. He needs to know they are okay. But right now, it’s so hard to care. If Sam has any qualms with this, Castiel would quite gladly tell him to go to hell. And he knows that’s ridiculous - and insensitive considering the circumstances - but there is something about Dean that makes him selfish. He wants to be greedy. He wants _Dean_.

Dean shushes him softly, and the sensation against his chest has him groaning. “This okay, Cas?” 

Those eyes are looking up at him darkly, teasingly, hair a mess. Castiel wants to scream ‘yes’ and to beg him to continue. Instead he nods, sighs and tries to sit up, pull away. He attempts to prop himself up against the headboard, get a few inches between them so he can concentrate.

Dean sits astride his lap, straddling him. It’s all very distracting. He firmly peels Dean’s hands away from his body, gripping his wrists for a moment. Dean quirks an eyebrow and pouts a little which Castiel chooses to ignore, fighting down a smile.

“You never told me what happened with Sam.” He states, voice slightly shaky and rougher than usual. He clears his throat and waits for Dean’s answer.

The eldest Winchester responds by rolling his eyes and leaning back on his haunches. He pulls his arms from Cas’ grasp so he can cross them, looking unimpressed. “Well, that’s a moment killer.” 

“I need to know,” Castiel insists.

“But now?” Dean splutters. He grinds his denim clad ass in Castiel’s lap pointedly causing him to splutter this time.

“ _Dean!_ ” Castiel growls a warning, feigning an unimpressed air to show he’s being serious.

Dean hesitates for a moment, mischievous smile slipping into something more thoughtful. A shadow passes over his face but his words are oddly composed. “He’s fine. He’s cool. Bit of a know-it-all actually, you know Sammy.”

“So he isn’t angry?”

Dean lets out a low chuckle, “Well there were better ways for him to find out… but he says he’s not ‘ _mad_ mad’ whatever that‘s supposed to mean..”

Castiel feels sceptical and supposes it must show since Dean sees something that causes him to reach out and cup his cheek reassuringly. “Hey, don’t worry about it. There’s nothing to be mad about is there? We’re big boys-” His eyes twinkle mischievously at that. “– one a little older anyway...But we’re still us. Just with this too.” He gestures at Castiel’s half-naked body before laying a surprisingly gentle kiss upon his lips.

It’s a sweet and tender moment but not terribly honest. His words imply they are friends who now have sex. Castiel isn’t ignorant. He knows they are much more than that to each other – always have been - and feels a flicker of annoyance that this is what Dean is reducing them to. 

Castiel doesn’t know if now is the time to push the matter. He knows Dean’s not good with emotions. And Castiel is maybe a little too good with them - always blurting out intense confessions that make people turn red and awkwardly back away. He’s knows he’s not exactly the best person to be steering them through emotional waters. He just wishes Dean trusted him enough to be open with him. He wants to know what happened between the brothers. Something occurred to make Dean look so thoughtful and pensive. He doesn’t like lies. They create distance. If he doesn’t have the Winchesters, what does he have? The thought makes him feel indescribably empty.

He doesn’t say any of this. Doesn’t want to be strong and push Dean away. He needs him to feel alive. He runs his hands down Dean’s ribs, pressing in, pulling him closer.

“Touch me,” He orders.

And so Dean does.

\-----------------

More kisses that blur the lines between lazy and hungry, soft and insistent. Dean’s tongue plunders his mouth while his hands pop open Castiel’s jeans with a casualness that takes him by surprise. He was too distracted by Dean’s kisses, by the wonderful rhythm of their bodies rocking together.

When Dean takes him in in hand, he cries out against his lips.

Dean makes soothing sounds and strokes him awkwardly, hand trapped under a layer of denim and between their bodies.

“Is this okay?” He whispers again, against spit-slicked lips. Castiel can only nod enthusiastically. He’s biting his lip too hard to form words – bucking up into that torturously light grip. He tries not to, but he’s too weak to stay still. Dean makes him weak. Makes him strong too. It’s all such a blur. He doesn’t know what he means anymore. How can he focus when Dean’s hand is pulling him to pieces? He’s watching Cas’ reactions now, drinking him in. Eyes dark and Castiel cannot look away. Doesn’t feel an ounce of embarrassment.

“You like this?” There’s something almost triumphant in Dean’s voice that tells him he doesn’t need to answer. Especially when his body answers for him, practically jolting when Dean’s thumb rubs just right along his slit. The Winchester’s other hand rubs circles against his hip, kneading the smooth surface whilst expertly pinning him down. 

When he was an angel, he would never have believed anything physical could feel this good. To be touched and taken apart until you can’t stay still, cannot possibly keep quiet. He writhes and Dean looks pleased. He would never have even hoped to one day experience this with Dean. The most he would desperately hope for, in the back of his mind, was a kiss.

He indulges – pulls Dean closer by hooking his legs round him. This throws the delicious rhythm off balance; Dean withdraws his hand, but allows him to steal another kiss, desperate and sweet.

“Cas…” Dean sighs against his lips. The best sound he has ever heard. Soppy but true. He meets those eyes, strokes the line of a cheekbone and speaks.

“Want you inside me,” He murmurs, it slips out, unbidden. It’s a like a line from the pizza man’s adventures, but it’s honest. Honesty is what they need.

He expects Dean to ‘freak out’. To withdraw, tell him they are moving too fast. Five years may not be long to him, but it is in no way, too fast. He wants it all. He’s too human, too mortal, too stupidly, selfishly in love and lust to wait.

What he doesn’t expect is for Dean to close his eyes, exhale raggedly as he rests forehead to forehead and say: “God, yes.”

He feels a rush of excitement, of nervous anticipation, a hot surge of lust and longing that takes him by surprise. He swallows hard, breathing growing more wrecked. He needs to keep talking. To keep moving. He presses indents into Dean’s hips. This can’t end like last time, as wonderful as that was. 

“Do you…?” he hesitates and Dean pulls back a little so they are face-to-face, bodies pressed together.

“What? Do I know what I’m doing?” Dean sounds a little hurt at that, words sharp and desperate. “No. But I’m going to find out. Gonna make it so good for you, I swear.”

Castiel has to kiss him then, he looks so concerned, so sincere. His words have left him harder than he’s ever been in his short, mortal life. When he pulls back for air, he smiles. “Wasn’t what I was going to ask. I meant do you have the ‘supplies’ this time?” He pulls his hands away from the firm curves of Dean’s enticing body to make the little air quotes. He thinks he deserves a medal of valour for showing such restraint.

Dean looks surprised for a moment. The puff of air against his lips is the first warning of Dean’s impending laughing fit: “Oh Cas.” His whole body shakes on top of Castiel, making them both wobble ridiculously.

He feels like rolling Dean off the bed then. He was being entirely serious. It’s a good thing he no longer has his powers. He would smite a pharmacy to get what they need. Dean is keeping him waiting and he’s so painfully turned on, frustrated and in love, he could cry and laugh at the same time. It’s a little hysterical. Hormones are a serious business, he realises. He wonders if it feels this way for everybody. If it leaves everyone feeling held to ransom like this.

He instead decides to shut Dean up by sliding a hand down his pants and squeezing just right. Just enough to make Dean whine low in his throat, laughter choking off. At least he can feel that Dean is suffering too. He lets go just as Dean begins to push desperately forward, breath shuddering out of him. He regrets it immediately. He loves bringing Dean pleasure, seeing his eyes cloud, his jaw go slack. But there’s a lesson to be learnt here.

“Hey!” He protests sharply.

Castiel just folds his arms expectantly.

“What?” He wriggles tortuously on top of Cas, working up a subtle rhythm now, that makes them both gasp when they rub against the right places. “Oh, supplies? I’ve got…” his face flushes beautifully as Cas slips his hand back inside his jeans. The angle’s too awkward, but he manages to find that hardness, rub against that hot, yielding flesh. He places a couple of damp kisses beneath his ear, resists the temptation to bite (that’s apparently Dean’s forte).

“…Jesus!”

“’You got’ Jesus?” Castiel dead-pans.

“You’re hilarious,” Dean grits out though he can feel the curve of his smile against his cheek. “I have this gun oil for easing the way. Works well enough.”

Castiel is suddenly overwhelmed by the image of Dean drawing to that conclusion. 

Has he tried it before, with another man? Castiel freezes up. No. Of course not. Dean said he’s never done this before. He wouldn’t lie about that. Castiel will be his first. His only. A flare of possession simmers through his veins at that. But that means… Dean must have tried it on himself then? How else could he know? Perhaps he made his hand slick? Then wrapped it around himself. Gripped his own cock, shifted into that tight, wet heat. Yes. Starting slow, then gradually becoming quicker, more frantic. Hips bucking, pistoning, head thrown back so his neck goes taut, sweat beading as his hand moves faster and faster. The sounds he’d make, that he’d try to stifle by biting that full, lower lip… 

Castiel flips them over, kisses Dean harder than he’s ever kissed before. Sucking his tongue practically down his own throat. Throat. He pulls back suddenly, kisses down Dean’s throat, biting kisses, sucking a mark where he can feel the blood beating fast until Dean cries out.

“Jeez Cas! What’s gotten into you?”

He bites down the joking response of ‘nothing…yet,’ and blushes at his own impatience. He’s pulling Dean’s jeans down anyway, slowing his actions, wriggling out of his own. The hunter can only stare up in awe, eyes wide as saucers.

“I don’t have any condoms,” Dean confesses in a rush, eyes screwed up tight as if anticipating a lecture.

He calmly continues to undress them, running his hands down the smooth skin of Dean’s chest, bringing up goose bumps. He tries to suppress the madness of before as he processes Dean’s words.

“You won’t impregnate me Dean Winchester.”

Dean grins and rolls his eyes. “I know that Einstein.” He looks less smug when Castiel peels his underwear away. Remembering his own fantasy, he licks his own hand first before wrapping it around Dean’s member loosely. Dean swallows hard. He circles the stiffness obligingly and begins to pump, imitating Dean’s actions before. Dean watches this whole process silently, mouth agape.

He sighs, breath hitching. “Don’t know what’s with you…” He repeats, gripping Castiel’s biceps tight. “And I-I meant the whole – nhhg! – STD issue.”

It’s fun watching Dean try to be responsible and focused while he touches him like this. He watches him carefully. Adjusts his grip and rhythm every time Dean’s expression subtly shifts, or his hands clench, or whenever his hips buck forward encouragingly. He watches for when his eyes go wide. He wants to become reacquainted with his body, know it better than Dean does himself. He wants to play him like an instrument, coax those beautiful sounds out of him once more, and then create some new ones together.

Dean’s words eventually filter through his concentration and Castiel realises a simple truth. He could kick himself for not recalling it sooner. “I’m a brand new human, Dean. I’m clean.”

“Oh.” Dean closes his eyes, nods distractedly, biting that beautiful lower lip. It’s better than Castiel’s imagination. “So… You’re like a virgin?”

Castiel could roll his eyes over the little labels humans are desperate to place on everything and everyone. So determined to simplify the chaos of life. Until he notices the way Dean’s pupils dilate. Then he realises it must be a possession thing and just goes with it. “Yes Dean. In a manner. You will be the first to have me in the biblical sense.”

Dean’s smile is almost feral as he runs his hands down Castiel’s back, slipping in sweat so that he can cup his ass and squeeze. 

Castiel has to hold back a whimper to ask: “Have you had sex since I last healed you?” He hates to bring it up. Hates talking about Dean and other lovers. Possessive. But what he hates more is remembering the reason why he had to heal Dean in the first place. Because of the damage his own fists had caused at Naomi’s orders.

He pauses his actions. He never wants to make Dean look like that again, never wants to hurt him. Dean’s eyes snap open and he snakes a hand up over Cas’ shoulders, winds fingers through his hair so he can pull him closer. He kisses him hotly on the lips before drawing away slightly.

“You’re a goddamned genius. No I haven’t been with anyone else, Mr Judgypants.” He meets his eyes, expression turning serious. “Just you.”

Then Cas is kissing him again, he can’t not. His former angelic touch cures all ills. No disease for Dean. Dean is pure. Dean is _his_. And he knows that’s archaic and all manner of wrong, but he doesn’t care. They can do this.

This time, he lets Dean roll them so he’s on top once more. He wriggles underneath him, testing.

“Let’s do this.” He breathes encouragingly against Dean’s lips.

\------------------

It’s odd. It’s uncomfortable. It leaves him breathless, shaky and Dean keeps alternating between darkly drinking in his reaction and cracking up a little. He keeps shaking his head, with what Castiel can only assume is wonderment and amused arousal. He had almost forgotten that this is all new to Dean too. He keeps asking if Castiel is okay. 

“I’m fine Dean, just…don’t stop.” It’s a strange sensation, but he still wants more.

He feels like he’s on the edge of something good, pressed tightly under the heat of Dean’s body, pushing down encouragingly. Dean knows how this works. Castiel doesn’t know how, or when he found out, and he doesn’t mind. There’s one finger inside him, breaching him, stretching him bit by bit. It glides slickly, if not uncertainly. In and out, so careful and smooth. The slow build of friction is driving him mad.

“This is so weird,” Dean murmurs against his lips, arm supporting him on the pillow, before kissing Castiel hotly. “You have to say. You gotta say if I’m doing this wrong.”

Dean’s eyes are earnest and Castiel nods slightly before closing his eyes, lost in the sensation. When Dean’s finger circles inside, it’s electric. He jolts and moans appreciatively, rubbing his thigh against Dean‘s member. He can’t tear his eyes away from Dean‘s face, flushed red and so beautiful in its pleasure, his mouth a delicate cupid’s bow every time he gasps in bliss. They trade kisses with swollen lips, taking their time, Cas' leg quirked up slightly.

He’s still grinding against Dean’s hip, chasing both sensations accidentally with the rhythm his body automatically sets. When Dean quirks his finger just so, Castiel is left gasping. One hand twists in the sheets, the other is squeezing Dean’s bicep, marking him, pressing the faded mark made so many years ago in another place. Righteous man and Heaven’s little soldier, now they are this. Two men, writhing against each other, clinging to life, to the reassuring heat of their own bodies.

Castiel privately thinks it was always going to end like this between them. Sex or death.

“That bad?” Dean withdraws his finger in a panic when Castiel gasps, much to his frustration. He could shout in irritation.

He sighs raggedly instead. “Not at all.”

“Oh,” Dean says, then repeats again when the realisation sets in. That it was a good gasp. “ _Oh._ ”

He grins and dips back into Cas’ body without so much as a warning so he can repeat the action, causing Castiel to yelp. This time, when Castiel moans, he doesn’t withdraw. He does it again, more confidently. Harder, a little faster, twisting inside so pleasure zips up Cas’ spine. Castiel’s fingers shift to Dean’s body, scrabbling to find purchase and they slip up his back, haul him closer, pushing Dean deeper inside as an accidental consequence.

Castiel is panting, toes curling against the bed spread. He’s sweating now. Never liked that body function before. It was always kind of repulsive to him. You did it when you lose control, when uncomfortable: too hot, in pain... But this, breathing in Dean’s scent, being pulled apart beneath him… he could get used to it. It’s a good loss of control.

“Oh God, this is bizarre.” Dean repeats. “But great ‘bizarre’ - right?”

“It’s odd for you?” Cas manages to gasp out, suppressing laughter. He’s the one with fingers inside of him. Dean winces a little at that so Castiel quickly adds: “But yes. It is good. It’s very, very good.” The words are heavy in his mouth. It almost sounds like he’s purring. 

When the words make Dean smile, Castiel has to kiss him because it’s open and honest. Dean with-out the bravado. He runs his tongue along the seam of his lips then whispers: “More.”

Something darkens in Dean’s gaze and it has Castiel’s stomach fluttering in anticipation. Dean withdraws his hand, sits up between Castiel’s thighs, grabs the tin of gun oil and adds a liberal amount to his hand, eyes never leaving Castiel’s as he does so. He rubs his fingers slowly, warming the oil before resettling between Castiel’s legs.

“Two?” Dean says, though it isn’t really a question, Castiel nods anyway.

That’s definitely a bit different, a bit fuller as the digits breach him. Cas curves his spine, bucks a little. He keeps any noises to himself, not wanting Dean to hesitate again. He must sense that Castiel is on the edge anyway because he slows down, circles intensely, spreading the oil inside. When Cas tenses, he licks a stripe up his neck, sucks a kiss beneath his ear.

“You gotta tell me if I’m doing this right.” He murmurs again into his ear.

“Go with what feels good.” Castiel nods frantically, echoing words from before. He decides right there and then that he won’t ask Dean to stop even if it does hurt. He wants to feel it all. Every last snag of humanity. It’s what he wants. What he needs and deserves.

Dean’s fingers, inside, stretching, scissoring. Getting a little less careful as his own arousal tears at his patience.

“So fucking hot….Who new?” Dean half-laughs. His other hand is running up and down the soft skin of Castiel’s thigh soothingly.

“I’m ready,” Castiel urges, running his hands through Dean’s hair. It’s been so long, so long. “Come on.”

“You’re not ready…” Dean insists, though he doesn’t sound certain. He’s clearly torn between his desire to be inside of Castiel, and the need to make this as pain-free as possible. Castiel knows this, he just wants to make him happy.

He slyly snakes a hand between their bodies so he can wrap it around Dean‘s cock, so hard and practically aching. He thumbs at the tip and Dean shudders, eyes slipping shut. His fingers slip harder into Cas. Their moans intertwine, a delicious chorus. “You _feel_ ready,” Castiel pants, forcing the words out.

“Dirty talk, really?” But Dean sounds delighted, he pushes into Castiel’s hand so Cas makes his movements more sure. Dean cries out before recovering slightly. “But you’re not ready yet. Don‘t want it to hurt.” He repeats breathing heavily, kissing him once more, sucking the sweat off Castiel’s lower lip.

So Dean enjoys dirty talk? Castiel is no expert on the matter. He’s seen snippets of porn. And yes, he‘s seen things in the minds of men, in Dean’s head so long ago when he had no real use for them. No context to slot them into and interpret neatly. Now he knows. Now he understands. It’s about stating your desires. About seduction. He wants to seduce Dean with honesty, with this new passion. 

He closes his eyes and groans heavily when Dean’s fingers find that spot inside him once more. It’s like a current running though him. Their hips move together, a glorious rhythm. He slings an arm over Dean’s shoulders to pull him closer, buries his face in his neck and slurs: “Want you to take me. Want to feel you within me, every inch, every sensation. Love bringing you pleasure. Want to watch you fall apart, and when that happens, I want it to be because you are buried inside me.”

And that is how the last of Dean Winchester’s resolve shatters. He withdraws his fingers, and Castiel clenches and deeply feels the loss. Dean quickly cleans his hands using wipes on his bedside table (Castiel doesn’t ask), pulls back so they are face-to-face and Castiel is pleased to see he looks as if he’s been smacked in the face by his confessions.

Dean swoops down, kisses him hard, rubs against him. It’s a dirty kiss, one shared between lovers only, carnal and intent with want. His hands shift so that he can grip Castiel’s thighs, wrap them around his warm waist.

“Like this, Cas?” He whispers, huskily once they’ve pulled apart. His eyes are beyond predatory. Like he wants to devour Castiel. “Exactly like this? Face to face while I fuck you?”

Okay. Maybe he understands the appeal of dirty talk now. Dean rarely swears. Castiel has never seen him like this. He has to use every ounce of willpower not to climax as his words sink in, eyes tight shut. Dean’s no fool, there was dark humour glinting in his eyes, as if he knows exactly what Castiel’s intentions were. Castiel can only nod a little frantically. He can feel Dean’s member slip against the curve of his ass, rubbing against him, teasing.

“Okay…” Dean sighs shakily, bravado fading a little as they both anticipate the task at hand. “No more dirty talk right? Unless you want to finish me off right this second.”

The image does have a certain appeal to it but Castiel understands. “Having the same problem,” He blurts out, causing Dean to laugh a little. That laugh is good, it’s his Dean, not the slightly intimidating dirty-talker of before.

“I’m no expert,” Dean states raggedly, grabbing one of the pillows from under Cas’ head and slipping it under his hips with a little manoeuvring. Castiel’s legs do not lose their grip during this entire process which makes Dean smile. “I’m gonna push in real slow. Tell me to stop if it hurts.”

Castiel stopped listening after ‘push in.’

He delicately crosses his ankles, wrapped around Dean’s back. Squeezing, anticipating.

Dean takes a deep breath, takes himself in hand, lining himself up, before freezing.

“What?”

“One last thing!”

Castiel has never been so sorely tempted to head-butt him. But the sight of Dean slicking himself up with the nearby gun oil is worth waiting for. He feels his mouth drop open and knows that image will be seared into his memories until the day he dies.

The sight, locked around Dean, eyes fixed on each other, drinking in their reactions, the hard, slicked-red curve of Dean when he looks down, it leaves his thoughts scattered. He nods at Dean and he lines up once more.

Dean was right. When he pushes in, it hurts. It knocks the breath from him. It’s fiery, a good ache, stretched full, so full. But it’s fine. It’s okay. He gasps, bites his lip, grips Dean tighter, snatches him closer. He pushes in slowly, gradually, a tight fit that has Castiel trembling.

When has anything between them ever been pain free? This is what they are, he tells himself. He clings to Dean’s body like a life line. His skin is so warm beneath his hands, between his soft inner-thighs, Dean's eyes are closed, lost in the sensation of Cas’ body. Castiel is tempted to ask him to pause while he adjusts, but the broken noise Dean makes leaves him trembling, nearly begging for more, to push through the pain. Dean’s too big, pushing in, bit by bit. The stretch is the most pleasurable pain he’s ever experienced. Exquisite in its intensity. The heat of Dean’s body is connected to that point where they are joined in a dance as old as the existence of humanity. Looking down to where Dean disappears inside him makes his head spin. He’s sweating, shaking now. Dean’s hand runs up and down his side, holding him together. The other props himself up over Castiel, looking down in awe. 

It’s gritty and real and the noises Dean’s making are incredible, he’s almost sobbing. Castiel wants to keep every one of them. How will he ever stop wanting to hear them? He sounds like he’s had an epiphany, groaning so deeply, Cas can feel it reverberate against his chest where they’re pressed together so tightly. He strokes Dean’s hair shakily, murmurs messy encouragement. Orders him to move.

“Hmm yeah,” Dean forces out. “Just give me a sec.”

Castiel isn’t sure why he needs a second but holds still, clenches around where they are connected to intimately, experimenting. This causes Dean to groan almost comically loud. 

“Cas!” His eyes flash open, alight with pleasure, awe and amusement. “Stay still a minute or this will be over pretty damn f-fast!”

“Sorry, sorry…” Cas gasps, unsure of what he’s apologising for.

Dean plants a messy kiss on his lips then. “Don’t be. Are you okay? God…you’re so tight. Sure you’re not hurting?”

Of course it bloody hurts, he feels like shouting. But Castiel knows how this works. He gets the gist now. He’s slick inside, but the hardness of Dean is still stretching him. It feels uncomfortable, but full. He responds by placing a hand on the small of Dean’s lower back, locking eyes, and pressing down. Hard.

They both cry out as Dean sinks in deeper. So hard, seated fully within Cas’ body.

“You’re killing me,” groans Dean. Castiel has to bite back a response (‘want to trade?’ perhaps).

Instead, he repeats his order: “Move.”

Dean complies, cautiously. It hurts. He grits his jaw, digs his fingers into that wonderful ass. He focuses on Dean’s face, the look of wonderment, of undeniable pleasure. He feels it through the way Dean is shuddering against him, holding back, all that reigned in strength and power. It’s beautiful, so he clenches again to pull him back in, slowly uses his arms to push up to meet him halfway. 

“Cas!” Dean groans again, like a prayer, like Castiel is his salvation. Cas smiles at that thought. Sex is such a small part of being human, right now it feels like everything. 

He reaches between them, touches himself. His erection has slightly waned since Dean pushed into him, but it doesn’t take long to leave him aching once more. 

Dean begins to cant his hips downwards, pushing deep, so deep inside. Castiel is soon making strangled noises of his own. There’s something hot happening inside, something very good that Dean manages to find, to rub against only every now and then. It makes his whole body jolt, blending in with the lessening pain. The lines are blurring so well now. Dean is shaking with the effort of going so slow, but so deep. It feels right. Dean is the only human to get under his skin. The irony isn’t lost on him.

He aches and clenches around the base of Dean’s cock, feeling stretched, impaled around him. The way his skin pulls over his hips as he reclines back, leaves him feeling beautiful, powerful. The sounds Dean is making, shy at first, but growing louder, indulging, beginning to babble.

“Cas, Castiel, this is – I can’t…tight, it’s just…” Castiel takes his face in his hands and kisses him deeply, messily. 

“Come on then.” He urges once they’ve pulled apart and Dean sighs in relief, begins to push in faster. They both groan when he’s fully sheathed again. That hit something wonderful.

He’s picking up a faster, more natural rhythm, hips moving powerfully, jolting Castiel’s body. He’s invading everything Castiel is, taking over until all he can feel is the place where they are joined. His body is beginning to accommodate him, stretching, pain slowly, but never completely, giving over to solace. He’s digging his nails into Dean’s back.

He’s so lovely, so graceful and strong. All that pain, anger, strength is being used in this act of love as Dean pulls almost completely out before slamming back inside him. Castiel moans too, so guttural, body stretching taut.

“Are you O-” 

“Yes!” Castiel shouts, cutting him off, sliding up to meet him. Dean is lifting his hips now, trying to reach even deeper inside and Castiel could cry with how good it feels as he presses down. He can’t stay still, whole body jolting, cock being rubbed between them, too sensitively. He feels spilt around Dean, and when he shoves in again, they both cry out deeply. He hits that wonderful spot just right and Castiel clenches, writhes, moans against Dean’s lips (Cas has a moment to think that they got it wrong. If God didn’t want homosexual acts to be committed, why make this feel so wonderful, so right and pleasurable? Because He is indifferent to sexual orientation, that’s why. Who could be hated for having loved?).

Dean’s moving fast now, hips hypnotically smooth but thrusting in harder, until they are both moaning at how much it feels. He curves into Castiel’s body, kissing his chest, mouthing at a nipple. Castiel is nearly sobbing now, the pleasure is so bright, yet he’s still achingly, wonderfully full. He slips a hand between them, skims his fingertips over the place where they are joined, skin stretched, senstitive and damp. Dean nearly loses it when he notices this.

Dean is muttering gibberish now. Mostly repeating Castiel’s name and swearing, whispering filth into his ear which makes Castiel even harder. But there are words that are perfect, words filled with sweetness and awe.

“You’re s-so good,” he pulls back, let’s go of Cas briefly to cup his face. Castiel clings to him, pushes up. Dean traces his lip with his thumb and Castiel places a kiss to the tip, flicks his tongue against it. “You’re beautiful.” Dean murmurs, before groaning as he grips him once more, slides in just right, hips bumping forcefully.

It’s too much pressure, too much pleasure for Castiel. His neck goes taut as he practically sobs in response to Dean’s relentless pace. He’s too hard, too sensitive. He wraps a hands around himself, begins to pull desperately, moving in time to Dean’s thrusts on instinct.

They lock eyes and Dean has to burrow his face into Castiel’s neck upon the sight. “Oh God, keep touching yourself…” Dean begs in his ear, unable to help as that would mean releasing his grip on Castiel’s body, losing his angle which is too perfect.

It’s too much. Too much for both men as the bed frame rocks and creaks beneath them, flesh slapping together, panting filling the air as they exchange breaths. The double pressure inside and his hand sliding against his slick cock is too much, he cries out against Dean’s neck, let’s go to escape the feeling of too much. Castiel goes hurtling over the edge, mind blanking out. He’s seeing stars as waves of pleasure flood through him, hot and wild. It’s intense and goes on forever, coating their stomachs, shaking in ecstasy. As he comes, this time Castiel does the biting. He sinks his teeth into the long juncture of neck and shoulder, sucks hard to stifle the sounds of his release to stop himself screaming.

He hears Dean’s noise of surprise, possibly a yelp of pain. Whether it’s in response to the biting or the sudden unbearable tightness around his dick is anyone’s guess. He doesn’t slow. Doesn’t stop.

Castiel hazily throws his hands out across the bed, spreads himself out like an offering. Dean jerks into him, smooth rhythm falling to pieces. He’s watching Castiel, from his eyes, tracking the flush down his body, looking at where they are joined, where he pumps in and out of him. It’s blurring back into pain again but Castiel doesn’t mind. He lets Dean take what he needs, use him, break him. Dean’s choking out obscenities again, mixed with praise, thankfulness and desperation. He’s moving so fast, hips juddering harshly, everything becoming wetter. It’s obscene and so incredibly hot that Castiel cannot look away. He’s too sensitive, the pleasure/pain divide is so sharp, he bites his lip until he tastes blood. It’s animalistic. Dean looks so strong and dominant, so filled with pleasure, breathing heavy and steadily working to a peak.

“Oh Cas, oh I can’t…” He groans eyes closing, finally looking away from Castiel’s body.

“Finish it.” 

He buries himself inside Castiel one last time. The noise he makes at completion is ripped out of him, almost as if he were in pain. Castiel holds him through it, runs his hands all over him, and relishes the feel of his hot release inside him. It’s so new, so strange and he wants it all again.

It goes on for a while; his body is taut like a live-wire. He’s so incredibly beautiful. His eyes are closed and Castiel watches him through it all. The way his body strains, the desperate way he snatches Castiel up, as if rooting himself here to the present.

They are both a little stunned at the finish. They lock eyes, swallow hard, breathe heavy. Castiel’s legs loosen, releasing Dean from their deadlock. They’ll both have bruises tomorrow. There’s just the sound of their ragged breathing, the sweat cools on their body and Castiel has no idea what to say again. What could they possibly say that would top that? There’s an awkward, stunned silence.

Until Dean begins to laugh a little hysterically, burying his face in Cas’ neck.

“What?” He feels nervous apprehension flood through him. Was he not good? How could it not have been good for Dean?

“Nothing. It’s just…” He hesitates, laughter eventually drying up, “That was just so damn good. It was so ridiculously good Cas. I can’t even describe…” He trails off, before placing a kiss on Castiel’s neck causing him to relax instantly. Dean enjoyed it. Dean really enjoyed it. He feels a smile spread across his face. This is _excellent_.

Dean slips out of him and Castiel winces a little, feeling the loss already. Dean notices.

He lays over him, traces the contours of Castiel’s face, inches apart, almost looking shy. Definitely looking worried. “Did I…Did I hurt you?” He swallows hard, eyes wide.

Castiel instinctively knows his answer will affect any sexual relations they have in the future so he chooses his words carefully. “I feel fine.” 

And he does. A little achy and tired perhaps. But he’s glowing inside once more. As they trade lazy kisses, he feels like he’s floating. He’s warm, sated, sleepy and for the first time in a long while, content. Used in the best way possible. He knows he doesn’t deserve this. He knows this calm cannot last forever. But he’s going to hold on to this, hold on to Dean for as long as he can. It is bliss. And he thinks he made Dean happy too. Dean deserves all the happiness he can get.

He gathers him up in his arms, nuzzles his face gently. “I think I bit you.”

He can feel the curve of Dean’s smile against his cheek. “I think you did too. Pretty sure actually.”

“Mm’sorry,” He murmurs, stifling a yawn against the warm hollow of Dean’s neck.

The answering laugh reverberates through his body. “I’m not. Kind of liked Wildcat Cas y’know?”

“Did you now?” Castiel responds, barely keeping track of their conversation he’s so sleepy.

“Are you actually falling asleep on me?” Dean laughs and Castiel practically purrs in response. “Hang on.” 

He pulls away. Castiel disapproves, arms reaching out to pull him back in. 

He feels the stickiness of his release being wiped away from his stomach and has to admit it’s a definite improvement. His eyes slip shut while Dean tidies himself up (Cas assumes). He stretches out, lean body aching pleasantly. The good side to being human. His arms miss Dean’s warmth. And he clenches, realising there’s other parts of him that miss certain parts of Dean too. He feels slightly empty. 

Then there’s Dean’s enveloping musky, masculine scent and the warmth is back, running up his chest before pulling him into his arms. Castiel wraps himself around Dean, breathing slowly, evenly. He tries to stay awake. Wants to watch Dean some more. He rubs his face against his chest, nestles closer. 

“You’re just like a cat.” He hears Dean remark, sounding amused.

“Hmm.”

When Dean next speaks, he sounds pretty smug. “Guess you really liked that then?”

He’s awake enough to not let that one slide by. “I wasn’t the only one.” He murmurs indignantly.

More muffled laughter. “Oh yeah. I’m not gonna argue with you there.”

Castiel huffs a contented sigh into Dean’s skin, eyes slipping shut once more.

He thinks he hears Dean rumble something else. Possibly: “No really. This is nice.” He could laugh at what an understatement that is but right now, it’s the best praise he’s heard in his entire existence.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. I had no intention of continuing this. But Cas and Dean wouldn't leave me alone.  
> Hope you enjoy...
> 
> WARNING: Chapter contains violence and scenes of torture. Though it's not all doom and gloom, consider yourself warned.

So when it happened, it was all because of food.

Food. Angel Castiel never really gave a damn about food. It tasted of molecules. It was fuel for humans, practical and nothing to do with him. Sometimes food was part of human social interactions, or just shovelled in so a person could keep going. And he thought the whole process of digestion, quite frankly, was disgusting. 

He’d just barely managed to hold on to the memory of how voraciously humans could crave food, thanks to Jimmy Novak’s red meat obsession and a little helping hand from Famine, of course. The memory had repulsed him afterwards. He had loved burgers. They’d made him _happy._

So he’d vaguely understood that food could be emotionally comforting. From Famine’s example, to the way Dean had always enjoyed pie, eyes crinkling happily, little sounds of pleasure escaping that Cas had admittedly found rather cute, even in his angel days. Mary Winchester used to make Dean pie. Castiel learnt this by peaking in his head. It was hard not to see. Dean had so much love in him. Such adoration was associated with the snack food, ideas of love and home. Castiel couldn’t understand it, but he came to love that about Dean.

But apart from those associations, food was baffling. From the concept of cravings, the effort of preparation, the knowledge that you are often consuming something that was once a living thing. Very unsettling.

Human Castiel was a different matter all together. It was a shock, to be so dependant, to both need and want to eat. The pangs of hunger, the contort of a full stomach. Cas loved pizza. He loved experimenting with the toppings, trying new flavours, eating with his hands, chewing slowly and savouring the flavours. He liked ice-cream, though the cold had startled him terribly at first. The brothers had roared with laughter at his brain-freeze reaction. They had told him he wasn’t dying though he clearly was. But he liked the smooth, creamy blend of flavours. He was amazed at the broad scope of textures, taste and the many categories of food that humans had created for themselves. The sensory information was almost too much at first. 

He had a real sweet tooth for cookies and chocolate, despite Dean’s various warnings he would ‘get pudgy.’ Fruits were a favourite, juicy and fresh, sweet and ripe. He liked to eat with Dean. To savour his pleasure. He’d imagined introducing food into new situations with Dean… Scenarios that had made him weak at the knees. Eating was a sensual experience, sometimes a little messy, often enjoyable.

The kitchen was bare. That was unacceptable. The brothers had never really had a home or a kitchen to stock before. They’d often run out of the necessities. But Castiel no longer wanted them to go without. He wanted to help and chip in, especially since he was partly responsible for the rapid depletion of food every week. And so with an uncomfortably empty fridge, clutching a wide ranging list, he went out to do the grocery shopping. How hard could it be? The brothers supposedly did it every week. When there wasn’t an apocalypse. 

He hated being a burden on the brothers. True, he was using their money, the small cadge they’d leant him not so long ago. He thought he’d do them a favour and knew what they liked. Things were too tense in the bunker these days. Sam kept making ‘third wheel’ jokes though Cas had no idea what that meant. He’d always thought a third wheel was a good thing. Either way, Dean didn’t touch him whilst Sam was around. Too self conscious, Cas supposed.

Since the brothers were working on their own research projects, he slipped out unnoticed. He left a brief note explaining where he was heading, knowing Dean wouldn’t like him going alone but finding he pretty much didn’t care about that. He was thousands of years old, he could make a quick trip to the store without anything catastrophic happening. 

He’d borrowed one of the shiny ‘sexy cars’ as Dean had termed it, from the bunker garage, and set off to the nearest store, list in hand. And he could drive just fine. Sort of. Dean had been teaching him. All he needed was more practice. It wasn’t that difficult anyway. Castiel had become a very cautious driver, mortality at the forefront of his mind. 

Still, he didn’t dare drive Dean’s ‘Baby.’ Just in case.

“I can do this. I am good at this,” Castiel repeated several times to himself as he entered a busy junction.

When he eventually pulled up at the local convenience store five miles away and parked up, he felt a distinct feeling of pride that he was doing something so normal and helpful. Then he reminded himself to reign those feelings in. After all, he was still trying to prove he was more than just the baby in a trench coat, now that he was human. Even if he was still wearing said coat, albeit over jeans and a black T-shirt, topped with a navy-checked plaid shirt.

It may have taken him nearly two hours in a relatively small store to locate everything on his list. And he did have to battle a busted shopping trolley, and a distracted mother who had rammed into him, but he was triumphant. He almost wildly overpaid a bemused store clerk in the process, but had made sure to pick up an apple pie, one of the unhealthiest brands crammed with sugar, the type Dean loved. He had hesitantly selected a nice range of fruit and vegetables to make up for it and placate Sam. He also added human essentials, plus pasta, pizza, beer, coffee, rice and a good selection of sauces. He was getting better at cooking all the time now. Though at first, the brothers had found his tastes a little bizarre but he was learning all the time what went well together (not mashed parsnip and tuna soup-broth apparently. Even Dean couldn’t fake enjoyment to appease him with that one).

He was satisfied and surprised to have taken such pleasure in enjoying a mundane, human task. He was fitting in, something he had never done his whole existence, not really. Even as an angel, he cared too much to have ever fitted in. He was getting better at being human. And then there was Dean. He had always fit so well with Dean - abrasively at times, but a perfect mess nonetheless. They made sense. Always through it all, Dean had made sense to him.

He was smiling a little as he left the store. Perhaps because he was so absorbed in his musings, he didn’t notice he was being watched. He didn’t suspect danger.

So when he left the shop, laden with purchases, he didn’t get a chance to put up much of a fight when he was struck in the head with a blunt object, dragged off, and bundled up into the boot of a car.

He wasn’t the only former angel who had learned how to drive.

——————

Pain.

That was all he knew at first, soon followed by a large dose of nausea. His head was splitting. His hands were bound. Everything was spinning slightly. Concussion. He was becoming familiar with the sensation, sadly. His head lulled painfully, too much effort to remain looking up, but he eventually managed.

“He’s coming round.”

There was no kindness or relief in that voice, only a cold kind of triumph. And anticipation. He didn’t think he would like what the voice had in store for him. 

At first he thought he was in some kind of dank cave. But no. He appeared to be in the world’s grimiest disused factory, cold and grey, though his vision was still clouded. He could hear water dripping nearby and was so very cold. The man stood in front of him and Castiel could only assume this was his attacker. He wore a leather coat, was broad shouldered, had long black shaggy hair, and an expression of complete loathing aimed Castiel’s way. Never good.

————-

 

“Who are you?” The words are slurred and it takes a lot of effort to force them out of his dry mouth. Dean’s going to be so mad at him. He doesn’t know if he means the biker for hitting him, or himself for going out alone. Probably both, knowing Dean.

“We ask the questions here, brother.” The woman’s voice is sharp, smugly triumphant and comes from behind him. He cannot see her but he can feel the blade she has pressed against his throat.

Why are people always pressing knives against his throat? He thinks this one may have an angel blade. He swallows uncomfortably against the familiar pressure as the cool surface presses menacingly against his Adam’s apple. It is hauntingly familiar.

He cannot recognise the man in front of him. Now he is human, he can no longer see the true forms of his siblings. It hurts to realise that. He tilts his head, focuses harder, ignores the stab of pain that triggers, no answers are forthcoming. 

“You’re going to tell us how to reverse the spell your little friend cast.” The man insists, going straight for the main question.

“My little…?” Cas is honestly baffled. The concussion is too strong. He realises this could cost him his life if he doesn’t concentrate harder. “You mean Metatron? He isn’t my friend.” Castiel protests gently, mind still fuzzy.

The blade is removed from his neck, only so the woman can rush around to hit him across the face with it. His head snaps to the left violently as pain explodes in his head once more. Blood flies as his teeth sink into his lip. It is stark, sickeningly painful, a wake up call. He cries out before he can help himself. The act is savage, pain as staggering as it is unexpected. She was so fast, he is honestly confused as to what had happened, didn’t see her move.

“Do not lie to us, Castiel,” She spits out coldly, full of barely concealed rage.

He knows any further denial may cost him his life, but what else can he say? He senses they will kill him anyway. He focuses on the woman in front of him. The angel. She’s impossibly tall, with long rippling blond hair. She looks so fierce and powerful. He wishes he knew her name. He wishes his head would clear long enough so he would no longer see two of her. He needs to appeal to her better judgment, the one he has always hoped all angels have, on some level.

“Who are you?” He asks unthinkingly.

A blow to the right this time that nearly knocks him unconscious from her impossible strength. The chair would have tipped over if the male angel hadn’t started forward to catch him. His face throbs and there’s blood on his lips. He can feel his face swelling by each passing second. The pain is so strong, but he is unused to it, every time, it takes him by surprise. He does not know how Sam and Dean can stand it, in every fight against every supernatural threat they have faced.

Humans were not made to withstand this pain. This is not their world, his world, anymore. Yet Sam and Dean survive it every day. Each time, they survive, so much stronger. He holds onto that thought.

“Lia, enough!” Commands the biker angel. “He’s human now. He’s weak. Another blow could kill him and wouldn’t that be a shame?”

He doesn’t think the man is being completely sincere.

For a moment he thinks the woman, this Lia, will protest, land a killing blow anyway. She looks like she wants to. Instead she nods reluctantly, almost solemn in her agreement. “Yes. He needs to suffer first.”

Her certainty verges on devout and Castiel realises his chances of escape have just lowered significantly. She thinks that what they are doing is right, is just. How can he argue with such determined logic?

He must try.

“I was never working with Metatron. He is my enemy and I will gladly help you.” Her moves are a blur. She hits his midsection with enough force that he cannot breathe, is coughing up bile for a scarily long minute. He cannot hold his stomach, or lean over, he is bound to the chair too tight, rope cutting into the flesh of his wrists cruelly. His coat is lying on the floor in front of him, crumpled uncaringly. He has never felt so vulnerable.

“Lia! He needs to be able to tell us what we need to know!” The biker chided, as if dealing with a bad tempered child. He pulls her back by the shoulder so that he may lean close to Castiel. Although he may be the calmer of the two, Castiel sincerely doubts he’ll like his interrogation methods any more than he liked Lia’s. Lia. He knows the name. They fought together, thousands of years ago. She is a warrior. And a proud one at that.

He is going to die here.

“You see Castiel, you’re responsible for getting us kicked out of heaven.” His voice is low and so dangerous. He never breaks eye contact all the while. “Now my friend Lia here, would be happy to just carve you up and walk away. But I think you know more than you’re telling. So let’s compromise, yeah? Let’s see what secrets I can carve out of you.”

Castiel cannot contain the shiver of dread that elicits. But he says nothing. What is there to say? He is the reason they fell, Metatron left him high and dry. He doesn’t know how to reverse the spell. Doesn’t have the magic words to satisfy their questions, to make the pain stop. So he says nothing.

And he’s right. Biker angel’s methods are just as horrific as Lia’s. 

He is calm and controlled. He uses the angel blade in a contained manner that is very effective. Castiel knows a lot about torture, but these two are experts. They laugh, taunt, try to break him down. He is isolated, shivering with shock and very much alone by the time he realises they are going to push him to far. They are enjoying this far to much and will probably kill him accidentally. They don’t understand what it is to be human. They ask the same questions over and over, as if they can trick him into changing his answers.

“Where is Metatron?”

“Heaven, I think.” Castiel barely recognises his own voice, his face is so swollen, voice breathless, lip split. 

“How do we reverse the spell?”

“I don’t know.”

Lia pulls his shirt open, stands there watching, laughing as Biker sinks his knife in. He smiles when Cas cries out in pain. They like that.

He is overwhelmed by the terrible, visceral sensation. His hands clenching, bound to the chair. Such a contrast to his life lately, Dean’s gentle, and not so gentle, touches. The soul melting pleasure. He thinks of Dean, his eyes, hands and smile, tries to stay with him, stay strong but he cannot escape the fact they are slowly torturing him to death.

They ask impossible questions, one’s he can’t answer. He suspects they know he can’t answer, they must be able to see inside his mind. Maybe they just want to hurt him. Biker - no Matthias, Lia had called him as she cheered him on - carved his chest up with shallow cuts, sliding, stinging stripes of pain. Just shallow enough to keep him conscious, to maim not kill. He’ll have scars if he can survive this, they are marring Jimmy’s, no his, perfect skin. He’s so woozy. He's forgetting who he is as his blood drips against concrete. He voice is so raw, he can no longer cry out. There is no point anyway. For what seems like a very long time, he is alone with nothing but his pain for company. These creatures don’t count. They thrive on his suffering.

If this were a movie, help would rush in right about now, he thinks wistfully. But they don’t. The angels cut him repeatedly until he is shaking, making up answers to get them to stop. Unconvincing gibberish that fools no one. He even gets desperate, and selfish enough to wish the brothers would come. Until he remembers that they couldn’t match the strength of two angels. Then he just feels ashamed.

He has to save _himself._

If he could just get the blade…

“What was in the spell?” The blade shimmers in front, red with his own blood. He gladly answers what he can, just for a brief respite.

“A cupid’s bow, the heart of a Nephilim…my grace.” That received very pointed looks. “I didn’t know what the spell would do,” he concludes, voice quiet but steely underneath. “I swear. He tricked me.”

“And we suffered for your mistake, yet again.” Lia concludes, furiously. He cannot disagree.

“I’m so sorry.” They can read his thoughts, can hear his sincerity. He’s starting to feel so cold now, shock setting in. “I let you down. I let you all down.” 

He sees them consider his words, look slightly taken aback, before they clearly decide on something.“Then perhaps killing you will break the spell,” Matthias muses, he almost sounds kind, as though killing Cas would be a mercy, as though there is the slightest possibility his people will be able to return to heaven. Cas doubts that very much. Metatron would not have left him wandering the Earth if that was so. But if there’s a chance…

“The I suppose you’d better do it.” He growls, calling them cowards with one look. They had to tie up one human to get the best of him. They hate him, but still they fear him. His name lives on.

“I suppose there’s one way to find out if it will work…” Lia concurs. She is so beautiful. Cas violently hates her, hates them both. He has to hope that they are the exception, that the other angels aren’t like these two deep down. They are sadists. They enjoy his pain. “He’s clearly no use to us alive anyway.”

He cannot disagree anymore. Cannot think of a magic solution to make his life worth saving in their eyes.

“Kill him and I will _end_ you.”

There is such fury in that unexpected interruption, Castiel is unsure whether he’s imagining it. It had sounded like Dean. His Dean. He’s been fantasising about an intervention from the brothers so many times. But the angels stop advancing on him. Their attentions focus sharply on something over his shoulder, expressions a matching mix of surprise and hatred.

“Winchesters,” Lia hissed, hands clenched, practically snarling.

It was real.

“Run. No. Get out.” He means to shout it, to warn them, but his voice is barely above a whisper. If the brothers are here they need to run. He’d rather die than let these two get their hands on them.

“Do it now Sammy!” The voice was behind him, edged with desperation.

The angels charged at the voice, gone in a blur of speed. Castiel couldn’t even call out a warning. He was so tired.

Then there was a slamming sound, flesh on stone, followed by a bright flash a light, almost blinding. The angels screamed. It went on and on. Their screams were still echoing after, when they were replaced by a stunned sort of silence. Broken by Dean, really Dean, he thinks - he hopes.

“Cas! Cas! Oh God. What have they done to you?” Yes, he decides. That’s definitely his face. He’s kneeling in front of him, eyes furious, jaw set tight with worry. He’s cutting his hands free so recklessly, he nicks Cas’ flesh. He barely feels it but suddenly Dean is swearing, apologising, gathering Castiel to him. He’s sturdy, he’s real and he’s the most beautiful thing Cas has ever seen in his life.

“I’m sorry Cas, I’m so sorry. You’ll be okay, you’re gonna be fine,” He tries to pull Cas to his feet, but Castiel’s legs won’t cooperate. He falls into Dean’s arms helplessly. The younger Winchester scoops him up, draws him close so he’s half sat on him. Sam hovers nearby. 

“Is he okay? He’s bleeding!”

“Bring the car around Sammy. Now!”

There’s an edge to Dean’s voice that Sam cannot argue with. Castiel buries his face into the warmth of Dean’s jacket, closes his eyes, inhales slowly. He hears Sam’s footsteps as he hurries to comply.

“You stay with me now Cas, don’t you dare go to sleep, you hear me?” He shakes Cas hard enough to make his teeth rattle. He has to fight a violent wave of nausea. “I am so mad at you right now, you dumbass. But that doesn’t matter. You’re here now. And you’re gonna be just fine alright?”

He wonders why Dean keeps saying that.

_When humans want something really badly, we lie._

He realises he’s getting blood all over Dean’s purple plaid shirt. He loves that shirt.

“Shirt…” He slurs.

“Don’t matter. You can buy me a new one.” Dean is beaming down at him, though the smile is strained. His hand is pressing down on the worst of the knife wounds, to stop the bleeding. It hurts but he feels strangely at peace. Dean cards his fingers softly though Cas’ hair, the only part of him that’s safe to touch.

“I’m gonna kill those bastards,” He vows bitterly.

Cas doesn’t have the energy to answer that. Or to worry that they’re still alive. The brothers must have banished them. Doesn’t care. He’s falling. Always falling, so cold, even in Dean’s arms. So tired.

“Don’t you dare leave me you son of a bitch!”

Darkness.

—————-

He’s warm and clean and cares about very little else at this moment in time. 

The room is sterile, bright, white. He hears his heart race thanks to a strange machine he’s been hooked up to. For a moment he’d thought it was Naomi’s office. But no. He’s attached to a drip for dehydration and he suspects it also contains that wonderful invention, the killers of pain. Like the last time. 

Hospital.

Dean hears his heart increase too. His head was pillowed in his hands as he dosed fitfully next to Cas’ bed. Now he looks up to meet Cas’ eyes, to reach out and cup his face so gently, he can barely feel it.

Castiel wonders why.

“Hey Cas, you’re in the hospital. You’re ok.”

“I feel like crap,” He croaks, and realises why Dean won’t really touch him. The action of speaking meant he had to move his face and that was a bad and really painful idea. He reaches carefully to lightly inspect the damage, and Dean’s eyes flicker away briefly, filled with pain.

He face feels a size too big, raw and painfully tender. He bets that doesn’t look so pretty.

“How bad?” He winces.

“Bad enough.” Dean answers bitterly. Cas doesn’t have to be a mind reader anymore to feel the waves of guilt rolling off of Dean. “When you didn’t come back, we traced your phone. And you were just…” His voice trails off, cracking with pain.

“It’s not your fault,” he whispers, reluctant to begin this conversation. They’ve had it some many times before, in many variations.

“I should have kept you safe.”

“You can’t always do that. I went out alone, the blame lies with me,” Then he hears his words. “But I have to leave the bunker some time, Dean. You know that.”

Dean ignores that. He won’t even look directly at Cas. “If I can’t protect the ones I love, what good am I?”

Ones I love. He’ll process that later. The stupid heart monitor speeds up a little which he finds vaguely embarrassing. Stop that. Dean is hurting.

“Not everything is your responsibility.” He answers calmly, knowing Dean won’t listen.

“I want you to be my responsibly don’t you get that?” He runs his hands restlessly through his hair - a motion so adorably familiar it almost makes Cas crack a smile (he doesn’t. It would hurt too much). “When I saw you there, God I was so scared, Cas. I thought you were…” 

Castiel reaches out to him then draws him closer though every muscle screams in protest. He just has to. He can’t bear to see Dean’s pain anymore. He has enough of his own to deal with. Maybe they can help each other. He needs to be close to Dean, to prove he’s still there, he’s fine, they both are. 

He is careful, pulls Dean close to his neck, just holds him, strokes his hair soothingly as Dean breathes shakily against him. He’s held him like this before, after making love, but this is different. They are a little more broken, more desperate than they’ve ever been. He wonders how they will move past this, if they can. He thinks he feels wetness against his neck, though knows better than to mention it. 

Dean is pressing so gently, barely placing any weight upon him. He’s holding on to Cas as if he were fragile, which he is now, to an extent. The angels were fond of choking him. He blocks those thoughts out, concentrates on holding Dean, keeping Dean.

“I _am_ yours.” He admits simply into the top of Dean’s head. A truth so obvious that it’s surprising he’s never said it before now. 

Dean sighs into his skin. “Can you be an angel again? I liked it better when you were immortal. And safe.” Dean mumbles into the warmth of Cas’ throat, the only part not bandaged. He just stays there and breathes unsteadily. 

“No you didn’t.” Castiel murmurs, hint of a smile. “I wasn’t touchable then. You said I had a stick up my ass.” 

“I was jealous of that stick.” Dean counters.

Castiel chuffs laughter at that, can feel Dean’s smile curve against his skin. “Don’t make me laugh. Hurts too much.”

Dean pulls away at that, looking sheepish. “I’m sorry. Inappropriate.” He waves his hands vaguely, looking nervous. “I’m just not good with… feelings. Not exactly new news to you though is it?”

“I think we’re doing okay.” Cas admits, eyes slipping shut. He hurts too much to have the big relationship talk. Dean loves him. He is not going to die just yet. They are okay. Dean can’t even be too mad at him on account of his near death experience, though he can see it in those glittering green eyes of his. He’ll think of a way to make him pay later somehow. But right now, he just wants to sleep, to heal and to go home with Sam and Dean.

That’s the only place he ever wants to be.

“When can I go home?” His voice cracks.

He hears the hitch in Dean’s breathing. Those fingers are back in his hair again, stroking softly, avoiding the sore spots. His face and body must really look awful if this is the only place Dean is willing to touch him. “They wanna keep you in overnight, check your noggin’s in working order. Then the police wanna see you.”

“Hmm.” He doesn’t care, keeps his eyes closed, sighs at the sensation of Dean’s touch. “Where’s Sam?”

“Hovering outside like an enormous giraffe of worry.” Cas snorts in reponse. 

“He can come in if he likes.”

He must have blanked out a little - oh the joys of modern medicine - because the next time he opens his eyes both brothers are there, looming over him at the foot of his bed, looking awkward as they debate whether to wake him or not. It almost makes him laugh again.

“Is he smiling?” Sam asks, smiling himself though in relief. It’s worrying that he can’t tell. 

Dean puts his hands in his pockets, looks down with a grin. “Yeah, think he’s laughing at us, right Cas?”

He can only nod weakly.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Sam states sincerely. He reaches out, holds the hand that’s not hooked up to any machine, squeezes tightly for a moment.

“Thank you.” For saving me. For being here when I woke up. For being my family. He hopes they can understand his meaning.

“You’re family,” Sam answers simply.

His eyes are closing again and he grips Sam’s hand tighter, anchoring him to the present. 

”Looks like we’re finally getting that slumber party, Cas.” He hears Sam say. 

“Our turn to watch over you.” Dean agrees, though his voice sounds solemn.

In the peace of that hospital, surrounded by family, Cas smiles slightly, closes his eyes, and sleeps.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reconnecting...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews/kudos are appreciated.
> 
> Thanks for the encouragement.

The key to good sex with anyone, is the ability to trust, to let go.

Cas wasn’t so good at that lately.

It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Dean, quite the opposite. It was the fact that his body no longer reacted to the unexpected with eagerness and excitement so much anymore. Just shock. And occasionally some fear. He could never completely relax. Couldn’t allow himself to lose control.

Then there were the bruises, and the scars, that he suspected were never going to completely heal. At least the worst bruises across his face had faded. It had been hard to recognise himself in the mirror for a while. The brothers had had to help him move around, to walk him to the bathroom for those first painful days out of hospital. He privately thought it had been like a preview of old age. The idea had not been comforting.

He was physically damaged now, torso a litany of crisscrossing knife wounds. They were nearly healed up, but some scars remained raised, angry, pale slashes against tanned skin. He couldn’t stand to see that anger reflected back in Dean’s expression.

He rolled over on to his side, folded his arms sullenly across his chest. They were in Dean’s room tonight. He often spent the night in Dean’s arms now. It was just safer that way. Made sense to share.

Dean was a warm line pressed tight against his back. He felt Dean’s lips bounce gently over his shoulder, lingering kisses that made him shiver in a good way. Dean’s tongue lightly traced the unmarred flesh as his hand smoothed round to stroke the soft, lightly scarred skin of his stomach.

Cas flinched, rolled onto his back. Sighed. He placed his hands over his face.

“Cas…”

He heard Dean begin but the words just hung there with nowhere to go. There was sadness in that syllable, gentleness and slight desperation.

“I know,” He mumbled into his hands.

Castiel loved having sex with Dean. He was willing to keep trying. It would just take time to get back to how things had been. They both needed the closeness, to connect and cling to each other. Dean was definitely enjoying himself more than Cas was these days. But Castiel thought, if he could heal with anyone, it would be with Dean.

“I love you,” Dean stated quietly in the darkness, tone slightly uncertain. 

It always seemed to be much easier for Dean to whisper that in the dark, when Cas could not see him. It still made his heart pound, something swell with warmth inside of him.

But it wasn’t a magic fix all.

“And I love you,” He murmured into his hands, sighing softly.

He felt Dean wrap his hands around his wrists, very carefully (the nerves were still damaged from being restrained for so long, they still kept throbbing, an unpleasant reminder). Dean pulled them away, hovered closer to meet his eyes.

“Hey,” He smiled down at Cas softly. “You know I don’t care about the scars. Or the sex stuff, right?”

It came out too fast, almost rehearsed, clumsy in a typical Dean-fashion. Castiel gave him a very sarcastic look. “Okay. I _do_ care about the sex stuff a bit. But only because you’re so fucking hot and I want you so damn much.” Dean blurted out. “You’re _still_ so fucking hot.” He emphasised carefully. Cas tried not to smile, almost succeeded. 

Dean waited for him to answer. He must have been disappointed. “I can wait. I can wait forever. It doesn’t matter to me.” He babbled, unnerved by Cas’ silence.

Castiel made a scoffing sound.

“It’s true! You think I care about a couple of scars?” Dean sat upright then, actually sounding a little angry. “I’m here aren’t I? I chose you. The weird, dorky ex-angel with a stick up his ass - that’s you by the way.” Cas rolled his eyes at the sarcasm. “You. The former twinkly beam of starlight or whatever the hell you were, man. I had sex with a friggin’ dude!”

“What is your point?” Castiel asked, an edge to his voice despite the good intentions behind Dean’s clumsy words. He certainly hoped there was a point.

“I did all that, because it was you. I love you.” Dean could no longer meet his eyes now, though he was practically shouting. “You think I only care about the physical stuff? Looks and the sex and all that junk?”

Castiel considered Dean’s words carefully. Was he stating, that he had been able to overlook his vessel’s gender, because he fell in love with the person inside? Therefore, physical appearances meant very little when it came to their relationship? It was odd logic yet strangely comforting. But the back of his mind insists that Dean is once more dodging the real issues here, revealing so much by saying so little. He knows that Dean must find the male form attractive on some level, and not just the body Cas now possesses. But that’s a thread to pull at another day.

He seemed to be waiting for an answer. “ _I_ care.” Cas admitted in a tiny voice.

Then Dean’s lips were on his, softly pressing, holding him gently. “You’re beautiful,” Dean murmured into his lips.

“I’m broken.”

Dean pulled back, face hovering above his own. “I don’t care.” 

“I just need time.”

Dean moved back, smiling sadly. He held his hands up as if in surrender. “ Hey I got time. All the time in the world for you. Just call me a monk. Brother Dean.” 

Cas had snorted then. “I sincerely doubt a brotherhood would take you.”

“They'd be glad to have me!” He protested. “I’m just what they’ve been waiting for. I’m a delight!”

He flopped back into bed next to Cas, led on his side so he could face him. Castiel rolled back onto his side, so he could whisper more confessions in the dark.

“I’ll get there eventually. It’s just…It’s hard to let myself lose control anymore.” He admitted stiffly.

Very briefly, Dean palmed his cheek - overly careful, as if that touch would set Castiel off. It hurt Cas’ heart to see Dean being so scared to touch him.

“It doesn’t matter if you do. I’ll be right there with you.” 

“I know you will.” Cas said.

Gradually, Castiel was able to relax, to gently fall into that comforting space just before you fall into a deep sleep. Dean’s slightly rough hands gently smoothed the scarred skin of his stomach once more, slow and tentatively a first. Eventually, Cas was able to relax, to not flinch. It was soothing. And he was so sleepy, he couldn’t find it in himself to care too much about Dean feeling his scars. 

Dean loved his body, loved _him_ anyway.

The dreams didn’t come that night.

 

————

 

“I think that Cas needs his grace back.”

Dean waited until Sam had taken an unfortunately large bite of melon at breakfast before revealing that dramatic statement out of the blue. Cas was in bed, breathing softly, still curled up in the warmth of their combined body heat.

Sam nearly coughed the whole melon slice back up again.

“Smooth,” Dean answered, eyebrows raised as he handed Sam a napkin. “Do I need to go all Heimlich on you?”

Sam glared. “Don’t you dare. Last time, I had a bruise shaped like a bowling ball. You say away from first aid!” He ordered, then cursed inwardly. Humour was Dean’s way of deflecting. It wasn’t going to work this time. “What did you say?”

“I said I think Cas needs his grace back.” Dean repeated stoically, refusing to be phased.

“Okaaay.” Sam stretched the word out, needing the time to gather his thoughts. Why couldn’t they have a normal breakfast? Just a little cereal, maybe read the paper with a cup of coffee? No time loops, no demons popping in, no apocalyptically bad news hidden in a news headline. He sighed knowing this was going to get complicated. Dean could never separate Castiel from his feelings (as it should be, Sam thought). Dean also didn’t like to discuss his feelings. Messy.

It was surprising Dean was sharing his thoughts so willingly with him at all. He didn’t usually. Act first, regret later. That was the way he usually did things. Sam selected the most relevant pitfall to Dean’s plan. “But Metatron used it in his spell.”

Dean pulled out the seat opposite, slid in thoughtfully. “You see, I’ve been thinking about that. We don’t know it got destroyed now do we?”

“True.” Sam admitted. “But why do you want Cas to level up now anyway? Has he said anything about it?”

At Dean’s sheepish expression, he knew Cas hadn’t. “For God’s sake Dean! He hasn’t said anything has he? You’re going behind his back aren’t you?”

Dean held his hands up to ward off his little brother’s irate questions. “Whoa! I haven’t done anything yet, it’s all just thinking out loud.” He crossed his arms defensively, trying to look contrite and falling short by a few miles. Sam glowered.

“Secrets are bad Dean. I know we haven’t been the same since you healed me.” Sam pushed his anger down once more. This wasn’t about that, but the thought of Dean, striking some mystery deal to cure him, made him feel cold all over. It was like the hell deal all over again. He couldn’t let that go. Couldn’t stand to see Dean suffer for his sake once more.

But Dean still won’t tell him what he did.

He avoided the issue even now. “It’s just…Maybe those bastards who tortured Cas were right. Maybe it would be the key to unlocking heaven again. Then the angels would be gone and…” He trailed off.

“Cas would be safer?” Sam prompted, reading his brother like an open book. 

Dean didn’t meet his eyes, but Sam knew what he was thinking. He’d seen the way Dean had fretted at the hospital whilst the doctor’s worked on Cas. The agony when he’d seen the extent of what the angels had done to him. How he’d furiously paced, mind closed off and face a blackened storm. Fists clenched like he wanted to tear the perpetrators apart.

Sam had never quite grasped just how much Dean loved Castiel until that moment. He’d always known about Dean’s feelings for the former angel, even before Dean could admit them to himself. But Dean had looked like he had almost lost a part of himself on that day. That had shaken Sam, had made him understand fully, just what they meant to each other.

Getting Cas’ grace back could be dangerous for them both.

Dean stood up, stared at his feet whilst he paced around the dining table. “No one could hurt him that easily ever again. And he’d heal. He’d heal properly Sammy.”

“Dean…how do you know he’d even survive the process? Anna’s body blew up.” Sam said, delicately voicing one of his concerns.

“Because that body wasn’t ever a vessel. She was reborn human.”

“You’ve really been thinking about this haven’t you?” Sam asked, feeling his stomach drop. How could they get Cas’ grace back? More deals with the devil, with Metatron? No. Never again. They couldn’t trust him.

“How couldn’t I Sammy? They early killed him!” He exploded. Dean took a few deep breaths, continued, “As far as I see it, he’ll always have a this huge target on his back, long as he’s human and vulnerable. And his douchebag ‘family’ are still walking around down here.” He grimaced.

“But all this is speculation,” Sam added reasonably. He didn’t like that look Dean was wearing. The set jaw, the determined frown. He was getting ready to charge into something. Something rash. “You don’t know that Metatron even still has his grace.”

“There’s one way to find out.”

“Please say you’re not considering contacting him?” Sam asked, on the verge of exasperation. He ran his hands through his crazy hair, standing up so he could walk up to Dean, shake him if necessary.

“No. Not just yet. It’s breakfast.” Dean grinned in that sarcastic way that drove Sam crazy.

“Look Dean, I realise that you’re worried about him-“

“You don’t hear him screaming in the night.” It’s not a shout, not remotely angry. That’s what’s worst of all. It’s quiet, filled with deep pain. Sam knows what it’s like to have those nightmares, and to see someone you love suffering from them too. He’s shared enough motel rooms with Dean after all. The image is striking, deeply upsetting. He can’t stand the thought of Castiel going through the same thing, of Dean having to hear it every night.

“I know, I’m sorry” Sam winced, placing his hand on Dean’s shoulder. The words are so inadequate. He’s no stranger to such horrors; torture, nightmares, seeing someone you love suffer. “But you can’t trust Metatron.” He states firmly. “Last time Cas did, he kinda broke the world, and stole Cas’ grace.”

“Yeah. We still need to have a little talk about that.” From the grimace on Dean’s face, Sam knew this wasn’t a talk Metatron would enjoy very much.

“I’m worried about Cas too Dean, really I am. I’m just saying there has to be another way.” Sam sighed, smiled a little sadly. “Cas will heal in time. We did.”

“We only just got to him in time. What about the next time, Sammy?” Dean sounded so scared, so broken. Its was a side that Sam was unused to seeing. 

There really was no answer to that, but Sam couldn’t let himself be swayed. He could sense that Dean was starting to listen, to reconsider. He knew Dean would never want to put Cas in danger again. Not willingly anyway.

“You can’t trust Metatron.” He repeated, placing his hands on Dean’s shoulders for emphasis and comfort. “You don’t know what he’d do to Cas. And I don’t wanna find out. Do you?”

“Jerk.” Dean mumbled under his breath. He knew that Sam had him there.

Sam tried not to smile. “Look, just promise me you’re not going to running off to find that Metadouche.” He said, coining one of Dean’s nicknames. “Or at least, make sure you talk to Cas about this first. He may not even want to be an angel again.”

Dean’s eyes blazed as he met Sam’s, expression sardonic. “Why would he want to be human?” Dean said ‘human’ as though it were a dirty word. Sam had to sigh. Dean’s opinion of himself, his ideas of self-worth, were still far too low for his liking.

“You really think he’s not getting any better?” Sam enquired, changing the subject a little. The idea of Castiel becoming an angel again had lead to another disturbing thought.

“I think he’s trying.” Dean admitted sadly. “I just don’t see how we’ll be able to get on with our lives with this angel thing hanging over us.”

Sam empathises. Made all the right sounds of condolence, the reassurances of time being a great healer. He emphasises that at least Cas has Dean, they have each other. They’ll be fine. All the while he wonders.

Will angel-Cas still be able to love his brother the way human Cas does? Anna always said angels don’t feel the way humans do. He knows Castiel has always loved Dean on some level. They’ve always had a deep bond, have needed each other more than they ever were willing to admit. 

But why did their relationship only bloom once Castiel had become human?

Sam looked at his big brother with worry, with concern. He poured him a cup of coffee, listens as Dean changes subjects, rambles on about some classic rock band reforming. 

Sam cares deeply about Cas. But he doesn’t want Dean to get hurt. Not again. 

 

————

 

“This isn’t working - I can’t-“

“Ssh it’s okay.”

Castiel was straddling Dean. That way, he could feel in control. And it was working. It was really working. Dean was spread out beneath him like an offering, all golden skin, lightly panting and slick with sweat. But then Castiel’s ribs had started aching, that deep familiar burn. Then his legs had turned to jelly once more - nerves flaring and trembling painfully. And all those nerves in his wrists had stated jumping around like hot coals yet again, twisting and throbbing. He just wasn’t as physically strong as he once was, even with the physical therapy in the gym (hospital cost too much and Sam had researched the subject). It was helping him get stronger, but not fast enough.

And it wasn’t just about the sex. There was no way he could go hunting until he was fit again.

He swore violently in Enochain, slammed his fists into the headboard before collapsing on top of Dean.

He heard Dean hum uncertainly beneath him, pressed his face into his neck. “Were we moving too fast? We were weren’t we?” He felt Dean swallow nervously. “Was it me?”

Dean’s voice rumbled below him, familiar, comforting. He could feel Dean’s erection against his inner thigh, shifted a little so as not to excite or frustrate further. He’d felt so _ready_. He was going to ride Dean hard and fast until the pains faded into the background like white noise. He’d wanted it so _badly_.

But it was just a fantasy.

“No. It’s my muscles. They ache.” He peered up at Dean. “M’sorry. Not strong enough.”

The lightly calloused hands are in his hair then, running down his spine, tingling. He wriggles on top of Dean as the arousal spreads lazily though his body, heavy and welcome for once. He listens to the steady beat of Dean’s heart, sighs into slick skin. 

“Come on now, it’s alright. You’re strong, you’re just…in recovery mode,” Dean murmured carefully. Castiel couldn’t help but smile at Dean’s sensitive words.

Dean ran his hands down his spine, Swirled patterns into his skin. Castiel shifted, sighing into Dean’s throat. He was frustrated, yes. But also warm, comfortable and loved. They remained lying like that for a few minutes, warm and familiar, uncertain of how to proceed.

“Why don’t I be on top?” Dean’s voice whispered into his ear, low and tempting.

Castiel stiffened, heart rate picking up in an odd combination of pleasant/unpleasant. A weight on top. Trapped. Looking down at him, his scars, his aches and pains. But it was Dean. His Dean. He _trusted_ Dean. 

Dean must have felt his back stiffen, his breath shorten with unease. “We don't have to of course. Or I could only do what you tell me to do. _Anything you want_. You’ll be in total control.”

Cas glanced up at that, to see Dean waggling his eyebrows like a fiend, trying to act normal. Cas’ mouth went dry at the sudden flurry of images that conjured.

He stared deep into those warm eyes, hungry all of a sudden. An image slipped though his mind with a flash of lust. “Can I be inside you?”

The smirk slid right off Dean’s face then. 

“Forget it,” Cas muttered straight away, rolling off Dean to lie by his side, his usual defensive position. Dean held on to his arm before he could roll to turn away.

“Hey now, Cas I never said no-” Dean begun.

“I wasn’t completely serious anyway. I have no right to take such liberties when you’ve been so good to me.” It came out too stiffly.

“Don’t say it like that, like you’re a burden! I love you.” 

Confessions in the dark.

“Your face was a picture.” Cas whispered to break the tension, smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Dean mimed swatting him. This quickly lead to some very gentle play-fighting that had delighted Castiel.

He ended up as the little spoon once more, held tight in the safety of Dean’s arms. Dean nuzzled the back of his neck, breath tickling, making him shiver. His muscular arms wrapped around Cas’ chest, carefully not pressing against any scars, just holding, caring. Cas had a goofy grin on his face, just knew Dean was wearing a matching expression. Could feel it curve against his skin.

When Dean spoke, it travelled right down his spine, rough, low and completely unexpected in it’s sensuality. “How’s this for a deal? When you get better - when, not if ‘cause I know you will - you can have me any way you want me.”

Castiel’s mouth went completely dry.

“You mean…?”

“I mean, I want you to fuck me,” Dean whispered hotly into his ear, almost panting. He ran his tongue around the edge of Cas’ ear, teasingly, with a light scrape of teeth that had Cas shuddering. But it was okay. He was in Dean’s arms. He got him. He was safe.

“And since this is gonna be my first time, I want it done right.” Dean continued, words melting together, enticing all kinds of imagery. Cas’ body temperature rocketed. “I want you, healthy, ready, not rushing or doing it just to please me.” He could feel Dean’s hardness pressing against the curve of his ass, rocking a little into him, as though he couldn’t help himself. “It’s going to be so good. You know, just in case you needed a little motivation.”

Castiel wanted to jump him right there and then but he knew he couldn’t. Dean was right. His body was not ready. The ass, he thought ungraciously. He was painfully turned on and could do nothing with it. Every position was too painful, or made him panic, feel too constricted. Even the deadlock Dean had on him now was begging to get a little uncomfortable.

As if reading his mind, Dean loosened his grip, ceased rocking into him. Castiel regretted their loss already but could not deny there was also some relief in there too.

He rolled over to face Dean. “You are a health hazard, Dean Winchester.” He took one of those calloused hands, placed it on his own hardness.”You see what you’ve done?” It was the longest time he had been able to feel this way. His cock pulsed at Dean’s touch and he welcomed the sensation.

The idea of pushing into Dean, that tight, slick heat. Being surrounded by him in every sense of the word… It made his whole body tremble, break out in a filthy sweat. He never realised how badly he wanted it before now.

“Oh I am so terribly sorry,” Dean said, voice posh and teasing, he grinned mischievously, circled the length obligingly, then began to slide his fingers up and down more firmly. ”So I take it you like my idea then?”

He was still trying to be playful but Castiel could detect a real hint of insecurity beneath the bravado. He pushed into Dean’s grip lightly. Pleasure fizzing through his veins, mind whiting out slightly. It had been so long.

“Yes, I like the idea, very much so. As long as you are sincere.” He gasped out. Dean shifted slightly, pulled his hand away so he could lick it, move more smoothly against the heat of Castiel. “Oh God!”

“Wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t.” 

Castiel knew that to be true as well, though he found it hard to believe Dean could be so trusting, was willing to let Castiel do that to him. His heart swelled. Dean’s hand twisted, slipped his thumb over Cas’ slit so that a spike of pleasure shot through him. He moaned. A real, uncontrolled moan, the first in months.

His slid his own hand to join in, to grip Dean’s length, press their cocks so they could gently rock together. He slid his hand over Dean’s so they could slip over both their lengths, find their pleasure together. It was a slow, gentle, controlled, simmering heat. This position did not require any exertion, he was relaxed, at ease, desperate for more.

He licked his hand, saw Dean’s eyes darken even more. He slipped his hand back down, teased with the tip of Dean’s cock, made him moan. His confidence flared. Cas had to kiss the O of those perfectly swollen, cupid’s bow lips then. It was slow and messy, deep and grateful. He pulled back to look into Dean’s eyes. The only time they looked away was to see their cocks slip under their combined grip, hypnotically. Cas marvelled at how well they fit together, they always had.

Castiel slid his arm over Dean, pulled him closer. He glided lower so he could palm the flesh of that wonderful ass, tease the curve of it, dig his nails in faintly. Dean seemed to really like that if the hitch in his breath were any indication, or the way his eyes fluttered shut. Dean’s free hand smoothed over Cas’ chest, swiped a rough thumb over the peak of a nipple which had Castiel almost whimpering, forcing Dean’s other hand to move faster, squeeze tighter, twist on the upturn until they’re both shaking apart. Dean was squeezing their lengths, easing the way with precome until things became deliciously easy.

They were gasping, swallowing, speeding up. Their combined cries of pleasure creating a sinfully beautiful chorus. There was no rush, just the natural build up the that final great rush of pleasure, inevitable and welcome.

Cas fell first. It was sudden and sharp in its intensity. It goes on for rather along time, coating them both. It had been a while. Castiel was relieved to know that he could feel that way again. He nearly sobs in pleasure and relief.

Everything is so much smoother for Dean then. Dean’s hand fits over Cas’, guided him with precision until he can find his own release. He grunted, almost animalistic. Cas doesn’t have to tell him not to bite. 

Afterwards, Dean loomed over Cas, kisses him quickly. It is desperate and hard. He gathered Castiel up in his arms possessively.

“You’re gonna be okay, Cas.” He swore, eyes blazing down at him. Dean was shaking in his intensity. “I swear, I’m going to make everything better.”

The resolve in Dean’s eyes was almost frightening, it was so determined. Cas had no idea what Dean was talking about.

So he smiled softly, cupped Dean’s cheek with his other hand, traced that full bottom lip with his thumb. “You already have.” He stated, looking up at Dean with adoration.

He may not know what Dean is referring to, or what that worrying light in his eyes means, but he sure is determined to get better for him.


	12. Chapter 12

They trade slow, lazy kisses in the softly illuminated confines of the bunker. Dean’s hand gently cups Castiel’s jawline, fingertips scratching along stubble, drawing out each kiss for as long as possible. It is unhurried, peaceful and to Cas, completely perfect. Damp, heated, slow…

Lips smoothly bumping, firmly pressing. Dean deliberately takes Cas’ bottom lip between his own, sucking softly, running his tongue over the seam. They fit together so perfectly. It’s hard not to think they were made to be like this. It’s taken him millions of years, but he’s finally found this. Found _him_. He’s waited so long. Not even knowing who he was waiting for, all that time.

Now he does.

Cas pulls him closer, one hand clenching Dean’s arm, the other in his hair, cradling his skull. His fingertips lightly grazing the short hairs of the back of his neck, almost sharp to the touch. He tugs them a little, to test, not excite, relishing the texture. 

This embrace is slow, leisurely. They never usually get to have this. It’s always a rush to the finish line. A mess of limbs, teeth, desperate grabbing hands and sweaty bodies pressed tightly together. Not this. Closed eyes, just enjoying the sensation of being close, being kissed so deeply. Sharing breath and trading touches.

Castiel had been sat on the sofa in the makeshift living room of the bunker. He was considering which movie to watch on their improvised date night (though Sam may have shown up at any moment given that he had not been informed of said unofficial date night). Then Dean had appeared in the doorway. Leaning casually, but watching Cas as he scrolled through Sam’s movie downloads stored tidily on his laptop. 

Castiel had at first pretended not to notice. Had not broken the comfortable silence. Instead, he had snuck glances at the man in the doorway, trying not smile and failing once he‘d accidentally caught Dean‘s eye. It was a goofy moment, one that would be preserved in his memory like a snapshot in time. Even if he was sure not to scrutinise Dean’s expression too closely - which had been a look of fondness with swirling thoughts circling underneath. He wished he could read them again, and not for the first time.

Dean had calmly walked over to him then, footfalls echoing against the marble floor. He took his time, almost prowling, before sitting beside Cas, winding one arm around his waist, palming his cheek, and leaning in for the slow burn kiss. 

Ambush.

Once Castiel had adjusted to the sneak attack, managed to pull in a lungful of air and the taste of Dean, it was comfortable, natural, familiar with an edge of determination. As if kissing could hold this moment together forever, as if they wouldn’t have to deal with any looming troubles. 

As if Dean wanted to keep him safe.

Cas sighs against Dean’s kiss swollen lips, pulls his body closer, savouring his heat, his taste. He hums contentedly, brushing his lips over Dean’s teasingly. They’re so good at this.

“What’s wrong?” He mumbles, once he’s managed to extract himself from Dean’s embrace a little, resting forehead to forehead.

Dean huffs, voice pitched slightly higher to feign innocence. “Does something have to be wrong?”

“No. But usually…” Castiel trails off.

“I just needed to kiss you.” Dean states firmly.

“Oh. Well. That’s okay then.” Castiel responded, nodding in approval. 

He didn’t believe a word of it. Dean’s huge, wolfish grin did little to quell his suspicions. But then Dean’s hand slid up his thigh and he decided that going along with the programme seemed like a less painful, more viable option for now.

Everything perfect comes at a price.

 

———————-

He chanted the words, threw the ingredients into the bowl haphazardly. Paced. Waited.

Dean stood in the same warehouse where Cas had been tortured. He thought it would be strangely appropriate. Standing with his arms crossed determinedly, jaw gritted, Dean tried not to examine the floor too closely. It was stained with blood and other fluids. Possibly not just Cas’. This had clearly been a torture chamber of choice for Cas’ murderous siblings.

He wishes bitterly that he could have killed them. Really killed them, slowly, painfully, not just banished to Neverland. that was too easy. They could have survive.

The thought made him want to burn the whole place down. Maybe he would. 

After Metatron had obeyed his summons.

It was so cold in the warehouse. Perhaps the place just seemed to radiate misery, associated with painful memories after all. The scribe was certainly taking his time - could angels even do that? Choose when to show up, which summons to obey? Castiel certainly had on occasion. When he’d been betraying them - not thinking about that, Dean firmly pushed the thought away. Crowley had always been selective about turning up on time, every now and then too.

Betrayal. He wasn’t betraying Castiel. Was it betrayal, if you were trying to protect the person you loved? Sure he hadn’t discussed this with Castiel, like he swore to Sam he would. Sam. There were too many lies between them already without adding this one to the fold.

He suddenly wished his little brother was there with him. But that would be impossible. For obvious reasons…

“What, no flowers? No ‘Welcome!’ banner? I’m so disappointed.” 

The voice is nasal, an unpleasant edge for all its supposed good humour. Dean whirls around. 

“Metatron.” He manages to infuse as much loathing into those three syllables as possible.

As short, unkempt and weasel-grinned as the first time they’d met, when he’d been in hiding, the scribe steps out of the shadows, dramatically enough to make Dean roll his eyes. “How long you been there?”

The scribe shrugs, grins. “How is your brother doing Mr Winchester? Still suffering the effects of the trials?” Metatron aims for contrite and misses by a few miles. There’s an air of smugness to his words too. Dean’s fingers itch around the angel blade in one hand, and his lighter in the other.

“Throw that down and you’ll never see me again.” Metatron sneers, hands in pockets, trying to look apologetic as he steps out of the circle of holy oil. 

_Dammit._

Dean takes a deep breath, determinedly moving away from the subject of his brother. “I need your help.”

“Yeah. Thought you weren’t asking me down here for gossip and tea. You already owe me for using that spell to heal your brother.” He grins unpleasantly, making Dean’s skin crawl. “That was an expensive favour - one I’ll be cashing in at the Bank Of Winchester soon enough.” Metatron grins as Dean flushes.

He had lied to Sam, to Cas, and now he burned with shame. He’d known how to get in contact with the scribe all along. Metatron had approached him initially, months ago. He’d watched Sam fade away for too long, couldn’t stand it. His little brother was dying. So he’d stormed off, prayed to the one angel he thought might be able to help, the one angel who knew all of God’s little secrets, who knew all about the trials. Metatron.

He’d screamed into the night until his lungs and throw burned, until he’d nearly given up. Then the sound of wings had came. So he made a deal with the devil, figuratively of course, though he trusted Metatron no more.

He hadn’t wanted to trade for money or any of the rare and weird items in the Impala. Had only wanted one thing. A favour in return.

Dean knew it would one day come back to bite him in the ass. But Metatron had asked nothing of him so far.

And now he needed something else.

Dean remembered the smile on the scribe’s face once the original deal had been struck. He hadn’t liked it one bit. It was a smile that said: ‘I’ve got you now’.

Kind of like the one he was wearing now.

“Yeah, yeah, sinister threat, IOU, blablabla. I get it. You’re all smart and sneaky. Can we skip that bit please?” Dean growled out, trying to remain calm. 

“You mean you want to skip to the part where you beg me for yet another favour because I’m so important and you’re so useless?” He grins.

“Whatever gets you to sleep at night.”

“Is your brother not well?” Metatron repeats, confusion passing over his features. “Because that spell was full-proof! If it didn’t work it’s because you morons did someth-

“No. It’s fine. Sam’s fine…” Dean sighs, hating every moment of this. Having to bargain and reason with this creature, knowing he dumped a load of murderous angels on to his planet. That he tricked and manipulated Cas, before slicing his throat open, stealing his grace, his identity.

He balls his hands into fists tightly enough to draw blood. 

“Then what? As much as I like having you owe me a favour, your store credit’s run out. What else could you possibly offer me, hmm?”

“Ew. I’m flattered, but I’m really not feeling it with you douchebag.” Dean snarks back, trying to make the angel feel uncomfortable, though his heart is hammering and his mind’s racing with what he needs to do next. “I just want information.”

“And insulting me is a good way to get it?”

“It’s not really for me and you owe this guy. About yay high,” He indicates to just above his shoulder. “Scruffy, black hair, innocent eyes, very trusting? Goes by the name of Castiel.” He tries to make light of the matter but as soon as the name is out of his mouth, he wants to stuff it back in. Metatron doesn’t get to touch Cas ever again, doesn’t get to look at him or say his name. 

The thought of those things happening makes him feel sick.

He’s trying to protect the man he loves by consorting with the creature that hurt him the most. The idea is laughable.

“You know what? Forget it. This is stupid.” He spits out, pocketing his blade as he heads for the door.

“Wait!” He does. Heaven help him, but he does. “Castiel…” Metatron considers causing Dean to shudder. “You know I did feel bad for what I did to that guy, it was a mean trick, I’ll grant you. But really, If you think about it, I gave him a _gift_.”

“Really? Some gift.” Dean’s lip curls as he turns around to face the angel. “Which ‘gift’ would that be? The gift of ageing? Of tricking him into betraying his family? Of cutting his throat?” It’s a struggle not to shout. A haze of red washes over Dean’s vision and his pulse pounds in his head. Metatron should tread so so carefully.

Metatron’s head tilts slightly in a way that had Dean thinking of angelic Cas’ old habits. It infuriates him. It’s as if Metatron is reading, borrowing from what he has stolen. 

“He’s with you now isn’t he?” He asks lightly, suggesting that’s worth all the trouble, so Dean can interpret it any way. He carefully keeps his face blank. 

“He lives with me and Sam, yes.”

Metatron’s grin is plain nasty. “And isn’t that what you’ve both always wanted? One big happy family, you got your brother from another mother back?” He laughs in a way that implies he knows exactly what their relationship is, and that it most certainly cannot be described as ‘brotherly’. Dean stiffens his spine, reminds himself he has nothing to be ashamed of as far as Cas is concerned. 

“Humanity is a gift in itself, my father’s gift,” Metatron continues. “And through Castiel’s sacrifice I can now build a better heaven. Without the riffraff.” He tacks on hurriedly.

“What the hell does that mean?” Dean asks sharply, sidetracked. 

“Never mind that now,” The angel stuffs his hands into his pockets, making himself seem even smaller somehow, less threatening. Dean doesn’t trust it for one second. This man is a snake. “What is it that you wanted anyway? Make it quick. Being King of Heaven is a pretty time consuming job.”

“I want Cas’ grace back.” Dean blurts out, no hesitation, batting all other words of Metatron aisde. He’ll worry about that later. “Might as well put my cards on the table, I got nothing to offer you.”

“Well, I know _that._ ”

“I just thought you might have one shred of common decency in that strangely small, monkey-isn head of yours.” Dean folds his arms, stares him down. “I mean, you gotta know you made him a target for all the booted-out angels right? He’s vulnerable, in danger and it’s all your fault. Not to be all movie of the week but you betrayed him.”

“And you want to be his knight in shining armour?”

“I want him safe.” Dean answers, unfazed. He has never felt more sure about anything in his life. He won’t lose Cas again. Last time was too damn close.

“Interesting,” Metatron muses, smiling at his feet as he paces the room. “I might be able to give him that…Maybe not _his_ grace per-se but potato potahto. Perhaps you could even go and get it yourself as part of my original IOU! Yes, I can think of a few pesky targets! Two birds, one stone…” He seems to be talking to himself rather than Dean, but the greedy look in his eyes is not encouraging.

“What?!” Dean snaps, interrupts. “Can you get his grace back or not?”

“Of course I can, I’m brilliant.” He beams. “Maybe not his grace… But setting all of that aside, I gotta ask, why would you even want to?” The question startles Dean. “I mean think about it. What happens once he gets his grace back hmm? Figuratively of course.” He doesn’t like that look in his eyes at all now. It’s sadistic, patronising, and just the tiniest bit…sympathetic?

“What are you blabbering on about?” Dean practically growls. “You know, for someone who’s so short of time, you don’t half love to hear yourself talk…”

“Just imagine. He chugs down on a grace sandwich and then what happens? Newly-human Cas goes boom!”

Dean’s mouth suddenly goes dry, his legs watery. He flashes back to images of Anna. “I don’t understand…”

“Yes you do. You know you do. He’ll explode. Bye-bye pretty-boy body, hello celestial wavelength of burn-your-eyes-out badness.” His words come more rapidly now through a twisted smile, clearly enjoying the effect he’s having on Dean. He tries not to lash out, to strike him or shake him, force him to admit it’s not true. “You okay with that?”

“He came back before-“ Dean murmurs through numb lips, barely aware of what he is saying, suddenly feeling a chill go through his entire body.

“Yeah but I don’t think daddy is really paying much attention now lately, do you? No new body for our little Castiel. You’d never see him again.” His smile is malicious, enjoying the obvious pain on Dean’s face. He can’t hide it.

“You don’t know that!” He shouts, pulling the blade out, waving it in the scribe’s general direction.

“Easy now Dean-boy!” Metatron has his hands in the air, steps back suddenly, holding in a laugh. “I’m only telling you the truth. And what does it matter? He’d be an angel. He’d be safe! Decisions decisions Dean! Welcome to the real world.”

All the fight drains out of him. Dean lowers the blade, looks away from Metatron. Staring at nothing yet trying to deny the plain truth of the matter. Keep Cas away, but possibly never be able to see him again. No. He can’t. He won’t.

“He came back to me before.” Dean argues quietly to himself more than anything. “He always comes back to me.” He hates the uncertainty in his voice, the little flicker of pain, of doubt.

“Sure…” Metatron soothes patronisingly, stepping round a puddle of something nasty to cautiously step closer. “But even if he did, you gotta face the possibility that he won’t be the same adorable love-bunny you know now.” 

Dean has no words to form questions, just looks at Metatron, hopes he doesn’t seem too pleading. 

“His factory settings would reset.”

“What?” His lips are numb now, and there’s this pain spreading from his chest to the pit of his stomach. He’s flushed with rage and something akin horror. This can’t be true. It’s _Metatron_ for God’s sake. He lies. He always lies. 

He knows Cas would kill him if he returns to full angelic strength. This is all just a ploy…

He doesn’t realise he’s saying the words out loud until he sees the look of twisted sympathy of Metatron’s face. It’s practically sincere and that scares him most of all.

“If he became an angel again, even a pretty-boy angel, there’s no guarantee he’d be the same.” He sighs, corners of his mouth twitching. “He’d probably go back to being the original soldier boy you first met, remember? That cold default killer that Naomi turned him into millennia ago?” 

Metatron leans in closer, to whisper confidingly…

“I’m sorry Dean. He probably won’t even be able to love you. He won’t be able to feel it, to even remember how-”

He soon disappears when Dean slashes to knife in the air, aiming for his throat.


End file.
